Calore Dance Academy Red Queen AU
by Natthefantastic
Summary: Red Queen AU: What if Mare Barrow lived not in Norta, but in New York City, a street felon by day, and an aspiring dancer by night? (Full summary inside) Part 1/The Empire of the Dancers edited by @FoolishDonut , @BellonaetLibitina , and Serena H.*cover image courtesy of Venuelust; based off of Red Queen by Victoria Aveyard*
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**

Mare Barrow, street felon by day and wistful dancer by night, one day finds herself with a job at Manhattan's prestigious Calore Dance Academy, after a lousy pickpocket attempt on the academy's own Tiberias Calore.

Quickly, she jumps from being a low-level intern to one of the most elite dancers at the Academy through sheer luck and a fall from the stage rafters. As the seventeen-year-old climbs up the levels of social class, she dances a dangerous game of love and betrayal as lies are told and secrets are revealed. The gang Mare belongs to, The Scarlet Street Fighters, and filty-rich Calore clan are brutal enemies, and the girl, simple as the blood in her veins, is caught right in the middle. Mare soon discovers that the Calore family not only has a passion for dance and theater, but an obsession for power and money. And what better way to attain riches than with murder and backstabbing? As the young dancer soon discovers, it seems the Calores control everything.

Including her own life, if she allows it.

* * *

 _Part 1 — The Empire of the Dancers_

Summertime in this part of the country brings humidity with it.

The soles of my worn-down shoes and I have learned it all too well, spending countless hours trekking the avenues of New York—Manhattan, specifically. I should be used to it by now, the sun that would bake my skin if I wasn't wearing SPF 50, the wafting and balmy heat, and the merciless sweat gathering sweat on my brows and under my arms. Yet each day I leave my apartment believing it ought to not bother me, I return in the evening as a sticky, smelly mess.

This morning the weathermen said the high for today is ninety-five degrees. With the sun having been up for hours, the day's far past any protection the heaping skyscrapers of the city can give it. All sun, no clouds or shadows. How it always is these days.

A shame I lent my bike to Kilorn for his commute downtown, past Midtown and deep into the Financial District. He took my offer readily, and I haven't seen my beaten-up, noisy bike since, something I'm a little pissed about. Though it's bound to break soon. My friend takes that piece of junk almost ten miles south, seven days a week to his swanky grill job, and he's been doing it since the beginning of summer. I bet it won't last through July.

Then I'll get my bike back. Or whatever's left of it.

I smile to myself and roll my eyes, entirely looking forward to what _that_ conversation will look like.

My sister Gisa and I went our separate ways moments ago, as she headed for the fabric store a few blocks south. Her favorite day of the week: Wednesdays. Her boss sends Gee off with a few hundred bucks, entrusting her to use every penny to buy a half dozen bolts of fabric, colorful threads, and all the buttons, pins, and needles the shop might need. I have no doubt in my mind she doesn't filch a dollar of it.

Only to quell my guilt, I ask if she wants me with. I can't begin to imagine what Mom would say if she found out I was leaving my fifteen-year-old sister out on the streets alone, but Gisa just waves her hand and scampers off whenever I press her. It's not like I wasn't doing the same when I was her age.

And I can hardly blame her when I wouldn't want her trailing me. _Around high-noon_ , judging by the sun and the growl rolling in my stomach. I'd call it quits for the day, if not for the rush of businessmen approaching the building I lean against.

The sun burns hard over my eyelashes, the material of the building hot against my back. Straight ahead rests the chaos of Times Square: flashy lights, cars, and a hell-lot of people.

Tucked into the crook of my elbow is an inconspicuous black hoodie. I hate to put it on . . . but it's for the best. Begrudgingly, before the walk sign appears, I draw it onto myself, hood and all, pulling the strings with one rough tug.

The men move slowly for my taste, in no rush and distracted amongst themselves. From my position across the street, they look older, maybe in their late thirties or early forties when I squint. Polished shoes, dark pants, blazers for the sake of etiquette and nothing more. They have to be dying out here, and I wonder why they're _here_ in the first place. Deep into Times Square, these men are more than a little displaced, wearing their fancy clothes while every tourist to be seen dresses in shorts and light shirts. They're probably from some company or other a few blocks away and seek a change in scenery and a restaurant to talk business.

I let my neck drop towards my frayed shoelaces but keep my eyes up. A nearby stoplight turns from green to red, and a white walk sign switches on. While I wish they'd hurry up—I have places to be too—but their agonizing pace tells me what I need to know: they're relaxed, subdued by the heat. _Lazy, unnoticing, and mindless_.

They move closer and closer, preoccupied with their chatter, totally and utterly oblivious to the threat standing in plain sight, merely a forlorn teenager.

Or so they think.

Just as the barons cross the street opposite me, I replicate their movement with a push off my building towards the intersection. Keeping my head focused on the glimmering tar but my eyes elsewhere, my shoes pad along the freshly-painted crosswalk, and my hands stay slack against my legs.

A good part of my summer's been on this street and the ones like it. By that, I mean the ones bursting at the seams with well-off tourists and the occasional local businessman or entrepreneur. Even as I trudge down the crosswalk, I pass more shopping bags than people, who alone almost make me lose sight of the men. The tourists are the very reason I love this area of town; they're always so loud and noisy, bumping into one another and looking everywhere but at themselves.

I stick close to the right side of the walk, where the Feodora of the first businessman pokes up from the crowd.

Like a surgeon with hearts, my fingers are nimble and calm as I brush past the men, taking a quick glance into their pockets before fishing into them.

Delicate fingers barely touch the men, who've strung out into a line to navigate the torrent of people. Imperceptible, like a cool breeze wafting down the street. God knows we haven't had one of those in a while.

I clear the last of the clueless men and draw my scores into my pockets along with my hands, surprisingly relaxed. Ahead the walk sign turns into a warning red hand and a countdown, and I pick up my pace.

Tar becomes pavement again. I have a phone and a wallet when the stop sign changes to green. With any luck, the two men won't notice until they reach into their pockets to pay their luncheon bills.

My family knows damn well how I manage to throw money on the dinner table every night, though none of my siblings nor my parents argue over it anymore. My brothers Bree and Tramy never have, content to have some extra cash in the house, while Gisa rolls her eyes and scoffs her annoyingly beautiful face without fail each evening. Dad turns his head the other direction, willing to overlook what I do for the family if it means making some extra cash. As much as he hates himself for that _shortcoming_. Then there's Mom, who used to try and bicker with me for what could feel like hours on end, begging me to get a real and legitimate job at the grocery and deli downstairs.

Convenient as it would be, I'd never deign to ask Mister Whistle for a job at his pathetic store. After all, I already work for him in a sense, visiting his shop after long days to trade pickpocket scores in for money.

I continue walking away from the men, taking the adjacent crosswalk, but a lick of bitterness shivers across my spine. The worst part is that I don't resent _what I do_ , considering myself more of a Robin Hood than a petty thief. I've never felt dirty or bad or awful, not even when I first started out, barely a teenager. On the streets, I target those who look wealthy or the tourists—if they could buy a plane ticket to New York, they're fine.

The rich men especially get a rise out of my sticky hands. Their jackets and satchels are too easy to steal from, and I can't convince myself otherwise.

I try my best to saunter across the street, to act like I have no reason to run, even as my feet itch to pick up the pace.

"Hey!" someone barks from behind me, over the regular buzz, and despite the blowing heat, the hairs on my arms rise.

For a mere second, I freeze but turn my head over my shoulder, still hooded. Two men—coincidence, I think not—hurtle through pedestrians twenty-five meters behind me. They're not going notably fast, partly because of their age, party because of the crowd, but . . .

I start into a sprint of my own, no time to make a wiser decision. I've played it off differently before, letting my targets catch me, bursting into fake tears, and getting away with it, but . . . not in Times Square.

Anyways: I'm already late for lunch with Kilorn.

It might be the middle of the workweek, but Forty-Fifth doesn't look like it. Congested traffic half-made up of obnoxious yellow taxis and tour buses plugs along the street to my right in a blur; it turns out walking in these parts gets you around faster than taking a car. The usual neon signs and ads anchored to buildings annoy me more than anything else, but they're not as bad as they are at night. The buildings themselves are sleek and modern, unadorned with those handy cracks and flaws I'm fond of. If this were a chase through my part of town, I'd have these fools doing circles around themselves in a matter of seconds.

With a solid hundred people on the last crosswalk, I'm met with hundreds more on the sidewalk running next to the street, and keeping my elbows out, I shove. The stream's so thick it might as well be another lane of traffic.

I run at a breakneck pace. Or at least try to, with all the people in my way, but no one says anything, only giving me exasperated looks and grunts. The locals are used to this sort of thing, and tourists are trying to follow along. It's the taxi drivers that are particularly mean, not the peds. But their state of oblivion doesn't help with pushing through their ranks, no easier than walking through water. "Excuse me," I grumble over and over mechanically, but it hardly suffices. I've realized that sometimes in New York—most of the time, actually—shoving is more effective.

There's a reprieve in the crowd, and I use it as an opportunity to glance backward, only to find one of the men, tall and skinny, closing the distance, while the other is probably trying to find a cop. I've stolen a wallet from one and a phone from the other. It'll take a lot to make them give up.

"Dang it," I say to myself while shouldering past a few more people. A quarter of a block down, the crowd thins at another intersection, and I zone in on it. My target and I have covered a pathetic amount of ground in the minute we've been struggling through this sea of people, which seems totally insane if you stop to think about it. _Why would so many want to come to a place like this? It's busy and hectic and sweaty and . . ._ glamourous.

My arms ache more than my legs, the muscle toned from years worth of dancing, years worth of memories I don't think about often. The man behind me isn't overtly out of shape, but it's not difficult to guess he doesn't get his daily steps in. With a second look, he's slowed up, and the distance between us is swelling. Sitting behind a desk does that kind thing to you. Dancing for a decade . . . ending up in situations of these likes once a week . . . does something else entirely.

The point is, that I can run faster than anyone else on this block.

Grace, I didn't lose either, and I navigate the masses with comfort now as it's thinning. I swerve the corner left at the intersection, filled to the brim with scents my mouth waters at. _Can't remember the last time I ate out_. I don't complain, don't have a reason to complain about my mother's cooking when she does good with the resources she has. But she hasn't gone to culinary school and doesn't have a functional microwave.

Forget that. I don't have time to think about that right now.

The man that on my heels has dissolved into the crowd, though it doesn't take a genius to guess what's happening. He and his friend are going to try and cut me off, catch me off my guard using a different, faster route. Or the police.

Though these days, I'm never off my guard.

I push past people faster in an attempt to gain some speed as the intersection balloons closer. A red hand sign glowers and a countdown blinks, which happens to be a very small number.

Instead of turning the block and doing what they want, I dart out into traffic just as a green light turns in the opposite direction. My heart might skip a beat if I could say that I haven't done this before.

Cars skid to a halt before me, overused tires screeching on sunbaked tar, and crossed New Yorkers and taxi drivers honk, their horns blaring. I look up only for a moment to find a dozen faces scowling at me through car windshields, hands raised in obscene gestures, and windows rolled down so that I can hear the most creative curses this city has to offer.

Walkers from every direction turn their from their respective places at street corners to gawk at the girl in red, sprinting across a barren crosswalk. The horns are music to my ears, and the cringes of the people on the sidewalk I'm running towards tell me they feel no different.

It's not the first time I've been the cause of a little traffic pile up, either.

When I safely reach the other side of the wide street, I lose a breath. I avoided their trap, hopefully, cleaved a big enough distance between them and me. At the expense of my eardrums.

With a final look behind me, there are no yelling men nor red-in-the-face police officers. The cars, as if nothing happened, start up again, and windows are rolled up. With the exception of a few peds, most don't bother to look at me and continue on their previous paths.

Once more, I dissolve into the sea of New York City.

* * *

My fist collides with the door to Kilorn's apartment.

In a knock, of course. I'm not crazy.

But my friend might turn out to be.

After my _little_ encounter in Times Square, I walked a couple of more blocks before hopping on the subway to take me south to Kilorn's ridiculous job. My family half-jokes that he had to blackmail some rich guy to get it. To be fair, it's not like he has a culinary degree—or experience in the kitchen—to help him level up in the restaurant's ranks. At the glorious age of eighteen, he's already found himself a dead-end job, not to mention totally out of the way.

For a moment though, I seriously believed Kilorn had dirt on his boss: as I looked up upon an imposing sight twenty stories tall, made of steel, glass, and fury.

 _He works in a freaking skyscraper_ , I realized. At the same time, I knew they didn't pay him anything to brag about, in spite of the fact that his fancy, great job is virtually the only thing Kilorn talks about these days.

Rather tentatively, I slipped through the restaurant's doors and asked the host for Kilorn. I was just planning on ordering a water and clutching my stomach until I got home, but . . .

The host gave me a sad look and told me that Kilorn wasn't there, much less employed anymore.

I didn't give her a second glance as I mutely turned on my heel.

So I ended up back here at my apartment, pounding on the door two floors below mine. An hour and a half of my perfectly good day wasted because Kilorn couldn't hold his job, though I have to wonder if he was fired or straight-up quit.

If I had known, I would've been more careful covering my tracks on my way down to the Financial District. Sloppy and fast, was what I was when I got on the first subway I could lay eyes on. I didn't bother shucking off my hoodie to change up my look, and I almost forgot to power off my stolen phone altogether. It was a mess, only agitated by the fact that I knew I was late and Kilorn's lunch break only lasted so long.

But now: Kilorn can take as long of a lunch break as he'd like. Every single day.

I sigh at myself and slap my palm at Kilorn's door again. He's not answering.

My annoyance is a bad thing, having simmered in my empty gut since I got out of that restaurant. He wasted my time today, valuable time during which I could've been out on the streets picking and choosing a few more people to steal from. On the other hand, I hardly know what happened, and if I had a phone and a plan, this whole situation could've been avoided, just like all the times I've lost track of Gisa in the city.

Though I make it seem like it is, the irritation and my mood don't really have Kilorn to blame. Or the phone.

It's just another instance of our lives. Kilorn's barely an adult, yet somehow, I can already see where he'll be in five, ten years. Maybe he'll have a girlfriend or a couple more friends, but he'll still be jumping between jobs and floundering to pay rent. Best case scenario, he's landed himself a steady, poor-paying job that'll set him up for life; still, whatever that job might be, it won't be enough to support a family. Not really.

Kilorn's job as a waiter was merely his first attempt of many to find that steady, poor-paying job. It was probably more of an experiment than anything, for him to find out how he'd fare in the bowels of the upper crust. On top of that, it gave him a reason to get out of East Harlem every day, even though I still think that nine miles is an insane distance to travel for a minimum wage job.

But people like Kilorn and I . . . we can't expect much more than minimum wage. Getting that job at all was a miracle on Kilorn's part.

The system's screwed up like that.

I raise my fist for the third time to the door. Skin and bone pound cheap wood in a rhythmic, non-aggressive pattern—on the off-chance Kilorn's gotten himself into trouble, I don't want to scare him—but to no avail does the door open, I turn my back on the door for the stairs.

Only to find the face I've been looking for all over the city.

"Wake up the neighbors while you're at it."

Kilorn Warren loiters on the landing of the staircase, a hand braced on the top of the railing. He carries nothing with him, no indication of where he just was. His tawny hair is neat enough, and his shoes are dirty as ever. He shoves his hands in his pockets, awaiting the lecture I have in store.

"I wasn't _that_ loud," I return. "And the neighbors _should_ be up already. It's mid-afternoon." My words are careful, not accusing. Not yet.

He shrugs but doesn't respond, instead walking right past me across the shaggy carpet to unlock his door. For however long ago he left downtown, Kilorn already changed into his typical attire of faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. If it wasn't so damn hot outside, he'd have a black leather jacket on to complete his try-hard bad boy look. His lanky physique, soft face, and bright sea-green eyes ruin any chance he has of looking the slightest bit intimidating.

How could he be? I've known Kilorn since he was a little kid. We go back ten years, back to when he and his mom were new to the apartment. Mom and Dad are practically his parents, and he feels like a brother more than my actual ones. He'd follow me around all the time, having deemed I was the only kid in the neighborhood who he might have a shot of becoming friends with. He'd pick fistfights with me over the most stupid things, like who was the faster runner or who started the fights, ironically. Until he was about thirteen and Kilorn outgrew me, I won every one.

As much as I complain about him, Kilorn's my only real friend. Whenever we're not busy, we find excuses to hang out. When we were little, the two of us would make forts out of the cardboard boxes Will gave us from his shop and have cartwheel contests on the roof. Now, we watch movies, attempt and fail to oversell Will with pickpocket wares, and share the occasional rant over whatever.

Kilorn, smart enough to know I'm not planning on leaving him alone, leaves the door wide open to his apartment.

"Well? Did you get fired or did you quit?" I ask with no room for niceties. I don't bother entering his unnotable, shabby two-room apartment, smaller than mine with its one bedroom, a pullout couch, and a little kitchen area with a table for eating, content to lean against the doorframe. Without any fans, the space is steeped in stale humidity.

He plops down on the couch, which makes a nice creak in the process. Kilorn lives by himself, so the apartment is tasteless and barren, more empty space than anything else. The couch is the only place to sit besides for a few chairs.

"You'll be happy to hear I quit," he mutters, somewhat unwillingly.

"Good," I say quickly. Kilorn quitting rather than somebody firing him is a small consolation. At least he could stick it to his boss and have the last word—because it wouldn't have surprised me at all if he had been fired. High-end employers have a tendency to do that kind of thing, so I've been told.

The two of us stare at one another for awhile in opposition. I sink into the doorframe, making a joke of my usually-pristine posture, and Kilorn wrings his hands together and crosses his legs at the ankles. I don't enjoy these conversations any more than he does, but I can only hope he understands them. Kilorn hasn't had a steady mother in years. Or a father in even longer. I look out for him, try to make sure he doesn't go completely off the rails the way that my brother did. Even if he hates me for it, I'll keep needling him like this for as long as I know him, _try to make sure_ . . . that he stays safe. On track of those rails.

He gives me an annoyed look as if to tell me that he knows exactly what I'm doing. But I hardly have anywhere to be for the rest of the day with lunch hour over and dinner upstairs in two hours. We've been friends for a long time, and Kilorn knows I can do this all day.

"Fine. You win." Kilorn sighs and bobs his head. "It's hardly interesting, though. "

I cross my arms and lean my head against the door. To silently tell him again, _I'm not going anywhere_.

Without another word, Kilorn breaks. "The whole thing was stupid. I was walking through the kitchen, and this bastard who's not looking where he's going runs into me."

"By 'bastard,' I assume you're referring to a highly trained cook?"

"Yeah. Unfortunately." His face contorts in memory, scowling as he looks at his shoes. Though each of us stays rooted to our spots, Kilorn on the couch and myself at the door, we're not so far away from one another, and I see how his fists clench and unclench. Trying to release some of that bitter anger. "The _bastard_ had a pan of this fancy-ass tomato sauce in his hand and it got all over both of us.

"And I was about to say sorry, but then he started freaking out at me, telling me how I ruined his favorite _cooking_ shirt and owed him a hundred-eighty bucks. Not my fault he wasn't wearing an apron."

"So what?" I raise my brows in expectation. "You walked out?"

Kilorn snorts. "Right after I took his pan and trashed the rest on his head."

Part of me wants to say _that's it_? Another wants to fall to the floor laughing. The third . . . the third just gives up her stubborn ways, pushes off from the threshold, and walks to take a seat on the couch.

"The last straw?" I ask. That's how it goes. He's probably thought about quitting for weeks, finally having decided his summer job is a waste of time for what he's getting out of it.

He nods. "Pretty much. You know I barely ever waited on people? Most of the time I was just cleaning tables, washing dishes, and taking out the trash. For all that time it takes to get downtown . . . nope, not worth it."

"I won't say I told you so, if it makes you feel better."

But my joke has little effect on him. Kilorn sighs again and slumps into the couch. His bushy eyebrows scrunch together, his foot incessantly taps against the floor, and somewhere within his eyes is a panic. Wondering what he'll do next, how he'll pay for his little apartment now that his mom's checks have stopped coming in the mail.

"What are you thinking?" I ask quietly.

"I need a real job, Mare," is all he says. The tapping sound his foot makes rings and rings. "A _real_ job," he repeats.

"Okay," I shrug, up to the easy-enough challenge. "I'll take the day off, and we can go out tomorrow to start looking. Will probably has some ideas for—"

He cuts me off with the most contemptuous eye roll I've ever seen from him.

Taken aback, I trail off. Staring at him, I search for what to say, yet my tongue's leaden and my mouth's become dry. The look in his rolled eyes isn't a one of panic at all, but of vengeance and anger that I didn't see a moment ago. The seas in them tumble violently, full of a long-simmered wrath just now looking to find recompense.

Where was he before? Why was he gone from the apartment?

Those answers to those questions become very important to be, and I barely hold myself back from asking them.

"I don't care about paying for this stupid apartment so that I can keep on living my stupid life," he says cautiously. A bit of the vengeance fades from his eyes, and my friends takes on an air of seriousness. "I want to do something good for once, and I'm done serving Wall Street."

A million directions. A million directions I imagine this going.

"I'm going to enlist into the Scarlet Street Fighters," Kilorn says, and though he probably means to make it sounds harsh and unchangeable, it flops out unconvincingly, nearly a question.

Kilorn and I have been friends for a long, long while. He's practically family, living below us in the apartment. And whether or not either of us likes to admit it, we seek one another's approval.

My palms flatten against the couch cushions. I blink twice as if to clear the fog from my eyes, to see the world through a different lens, one that makes sense to me. I've heard tales—if they can be called that— rumors for sure, of what goes on in the Scarlet Street Fighter's domain. Nobody I know is involved with them, and what few things I do know about them has come from the local news and the busybodies of the apartment.

They target the rich and corrupt, but not with much success. More than a dozen have gone missing over the years and a few have gotten themselves killed. As far as I know, not a single one of their hits has been successful. "Kilorn—"

"No. You've spent enough time controlling me," Kilorn says, shaking his head. "I know what you're gonna say—"

"That you need to think about this. That it's been a long day. That joining a gang would be the worst decision of your life," I interject with wide eyes. Alcohol, sure; drugs, maybe; but a gang . . . I never thought Kilorn would be so stupid to fall prey to one. I reach out my hand to take him but in a hasty motion, he rises from the couch.

So do I, at my staggering height of five-two.

"What do you think I was doing out? Trying to calm down, convince myself that I'm an idiot. It didn't work. So I'm done." He turns his back to me and walks to the door, even as he continues his declaration. "I'm done looking up every morning at those skyscrapers by Central Park and by my restaurant. You know the guy who owns the restaurant is a millionaire, right? Well I'm done washing plates for him.

"At least the Street Fighters call out the rich and their shit. I don't care what you've heard about them. I'm joining."

Nevermind, I suppose. No interest in my approval, now.

He goes out the door, and I follow him out.

Kilorn probably thinks that it can't get worse, when his dad is gone, having died years ago to alcohol. His mom's barely in the picture, having left him when he was fifteen to go live on the road with some guy. She sends money once per month, enough to cover rent and food. He's alone in that tiny apartment, smaller than mine.

Living in East Harlem . . . can change you. The rich of the Upper East Side have never worn a pair of ripped jeans that wasn't a fashion statement or gone to bed feeling too hot or cold.

It makes you very, very angry.

So I sympathize with Kilorn. In a small way.

He skips every other step of the stairs, but I pump my legs to keep pace with him. He won't have the last word in this argument. "Come back here," I seethe, annoyed by how stupid he's being. Not stupid. Suicidal. "Let's talk about this. There are other ways—"

"It's the only way I can imagine I'll be able to make a difference in our lives. If I can't pay bills, I'll learn to fight," Kilorn says over his shoulder as he descends the last of the stairs and stalks to the exit.

"You? A warrior?" The words fall out of my mouth in a mean tone. He doesn't have it in him to fight or bring harm to other people, no matter how evil they are. Deep down, Kilorn's soft, and no leather jacket changes that. Not to mention that fighting in twenty-first-century Manhattan sounds like the plot of a twisted YA novel. "The universe is more likely to make me a pointe dancer again than your a warrior."

Deciding that I don't want to chase him through all of New York, I stop halfway down the stairs. I watch after him as he throws open the door with an excessive amount of testosterone. More than likely, he doesn't know where he's going, only that he desperately needs to get away from me.

I feel the money and my phone tucked inside of my pocket. This life is worth it for me, regardless of the constant peril I put myself in. I do it for the sake of my family.

Kilorn would be doing it in anger, to make himself feel not completely worthless. But he won't be worth much of anything if he's dead.

Not anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2

The checkout of Will's Deli and Grocery is abnormally busy for a Wednesday afternoon.

Will Whistle has plenty of talents, most less-than-admirable, but managing a store isn't one of them. I can't say when the last time was that I saw an actual customer buying anything other than over-the-counter drugs and cigarettes from inside the dinky little market, with no more than a couple of aisles and a row of refrigerators for meat and dairy.

By abnormally busy, I mean nothing more than to say that one other person is at the front counter with a basket looped around her arm. A moment before entering, I see her through the surprisingly-clean glass door: cropped blonde hair, ripped leather jacket, and loose blue jeans.

When the bell rings as I open the chintzy door to the shop, she glances up from the counter and offers me a curt nod. I return the gesture but am more focused on her eyes—stern, piercing blue eyes that look ancient in spite of her age. Twenty-two, twenty-five at the oldest.

"Never seen you here before," I say to her, coming closer. I rarely purchase food from Will for worry that it's expired or ridden with mold, so instead of roaming through the cramped and stout aisles, I get into line behind the woman, who must be six feet tall.

"Name's Diana. Don't trust you enough to give you my last," she muses and turns toward me.

My heart skips a beat at her bluntness, and then several more afterward, but I will my face to be calm, uninterested, even as I notice that there's nothing inside of her shopping basket.

Everything about her is hard. Rough. Aside from her torn up clothes and black boots, her mouth is curled into a permanent frown, and a long pink scar runs down the side of her jaw. If not for those things, she might be pretty, with her straight nose and round face.

"Mare Barrow. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you," Farley echoes, and holds out a hand.

Before I can take it, Will comes out from behind the curtain covering his closet of a backroom, amusement written on his features. "And nice to see that you two have met. What can I do for you, Miss Farley?" he asks with a smirk.

Diana Farley. Now I know her full name.

Will's beard, the color of snow, extends to his forearms, covering the bottom half of his wrinkled face. In his scrawny arms, he carries shallow crates of canned food, and his pathetic tennis shoes make sounds against the floor with each step. Prior to going behind it, he plops the crates on the counter, which vibrates a little with the impact.

"You know what I'm here for." Farley angles her chin towards me roughly. "You should leave." As she says it so bluntly, her jacket shifts, and I notice ink at its edge.

Scrawled at the base of her neck is a tattoo, a black circle with red lines that make up a jagged flower bursting from the inside. A very, very torn up and dilapidated flower. It looks like some artsy gang symbol.

Hell, it probably is.

I'm really not surprised to run into someone like Farley in this part of town. I've encountered plenty of sketchy characters within this little grocery store—and at this point, I'm immune to every one of them. East Harlem's notorious for its gangs and drugs, and Will's the kind of person who doesn't mind capitalizing on illegal things. It was only a matter of time before he moved from scamming and credit card fraud to the cold-hard business of drug dealing.

I blink at the woman stupidly, shifting my weight from foot to foot. Farley tilts her head as if to ask, _what are you still doing here?_

I'd excuse myself and come back later, but Will starts talking.

"Miss Barrow resides in an apartment right above us. She favors the police no more than me or you." Will turns to me, scratching the top of his bald head. "She can trust you, yes, Miss Barrow?"

On instinct, I blurt out, "Yes," without thought.

Farley watches me with the precision of a feline, and the store becomes quiet. Will scribbles on his inventory sheet as if he's not part of this, and Farley's lips shift side-to-side, weighing her options.

The quiet leads to my own doubts. She shouldn't trust me, and I don't trust her. Besides for having met Diana Farley two minutes ago, she casts off a bad vibe, worse than anything her clothes or face says. The tattoo . . . her few words . . . this woman is bad, but if it isn't drugs, I don't know why.

Will's right. The police are a group of bastards who favor the rich and powerful, whether or not people believe it, never giving _people like me_ the benefit of the doubt. It wouldn't serve me any good to call in—it's not like I have any grounds to report Farley in the first place—and if I were smart, I'd go upstairs to my apartment, and act like I never met this woman.

The tall woman and Will split a gaze as if their eyes can communicate on their own.

A moment later, Farley taps a set of fingers on the plastic case, filled with all variety of drugs and cigarettes.

"I'd come back later, but I'm a busy woman," Farley says, sighing. She looks past Will to the window behind him. The view's nothing spectacular, just some stacks of apartments across the street. She continues. "I need the file, Will. About that _family_. _We're_ not letting another one out of our grasp. Not this time. Do you have it or not?"

Not drugs, then.

However: what did Will get himself into this time?

She's awful vigilant with her words, not contributing names or deeds aloud. And I can't exactly be offended when I don't mean my promise. Maybe it's best, with me blissfully ignorant of this woman's plots.

Will smiles lazily, like an old man who has all the time in the world. Farley's eternal scowl broadens, and she narrows her eyes.

Will relents. "Of course I have it. As you asked, I dug up all the dirt I could about the _family_ ," he says casually, that last word with an ineffable quality, plainly secretive and dark. Without turning from Farley, he reaches for a manila file on the ledge of the window. "I reached out to as many sources as I dared to this week. Nothing in them will send _him_ to prison, but it's a start."

Farley angles away from me with the file, flipping through it quickly. Her mouth makes inaudible words, eyes scanning photocopied documents I can see the corners of.

"Best of wishes to your conquests. Tell the others I said hello," Will says, leaning against the counter. "Don't forget that you owe me."

Others?

"Doesn't everyone?" Farley asks, gripping the thin collection of papers in her hand as she closes the folder. She turns to me again. "I don't think that you will, but don't bother looking up my name when you go home. You won't find it anywhere."

I'm careful to keep my face neutral again. Farley might as well be the bluntest person I've ever met. "Wasn't planning on it," I mutter. I know better than to get mixed up in gang affairs, unlike _some_ people.

Will rounds the corner so that he can pat my back. "I wouldn't worry, Diana. Even high school dropouts are not foolish enough to search for the invisible." My shoulder blades clench under his palm, silently reprimanding him for telling her that.

The academic life wasn't for me, but I used to try, used to try for the sake of my family . . . yet after Dad, after Shade left to do whatever the hell's he's been doing these last months, I gave up on any college aspirations. The school a couple of blocks west of here is crappy anyway. I have better things to do than spend hours than at a desk that would've led nowhere.

"The Scarlet Street Fighters cannot be found."

I swear my heart gives out.

Not fifteen minutes ago was I arguing with Kilorn over that very gang.

Oh, the damn coincidence . . .

I raise my arm to slap Will's fingers off of my shoulder, but he pulls away before I can sting him. I start forward to act on my sudden rage, but she just watches, doesn't start toward or away from me. "You have a grudge against the Fighters?" she simply asks.

Kilorn, so hazed by anger at the world, wants to become a member, wants to have one of those garish tattoos on his neck. If these people weren't in New York, Kilorn wouldn't be out there trying to find them and get himself killed.

But it's not Farley's fault that he wants in or that's he's heard of them at all. If Kilorn couldn't get into this gang, I'm sure he'd find himself in cahoots with another.

Attacking a woman who looks double my weight isn't going to end well anyway.

"You have to promise me something," I huff out, always annoyed like this when I have to plead for things rather than take them.

"What could you possibly want from me?" Farley drops her basket on top of the counter and crosses her arms. Just a little bit of intrigue crosses her voice.

My words are quiet, desperate. "My friend, Kilorn Warren. He wants to join the Street Fighters, but he's a lanky teenager who's never stared death in the face. He's not cut out for it. If he comes to you . . . turn him away."

I have to take advantage of the opportunity with everything that's just happened. As far as I know, I've never come across a Street Fighter, much less on the same day my friend admits he wants to become one. And if my intuition's right, she's a high-ranking one.

Farley tuts, clucking her tongue. It's her chance to intimidate me and doesn't fail, taking a daunting stride closer. "I don't blame you. Though you're unaware of how potent we're becoming, how respected we are in some parts of New York. What have you heard about us that's so bad? We might be assassins and hitmen, but we're only trying to make this city better."

I raise an eyebrow, and she rolls her eyes, continuing. "You think my men and I are callous enough to let someone who can't hold their own out in the streets? No one's born a fighter. If he were to join, he'd have training." She says it like it's the most evident thing in the world, now backing towards the exit.

I match her footsteps. "Good. He's impatient; he'll only be a hindrance—"

The Street Fighter puts up a hand, showing roughened skin and chewed fingertips. "Members join of their own accord and cannot be prevented by others. Sorry, but I make no promises."

"But—"

"With all due respect, _Miss Barrow_ , I have better things to do than argue with you on this Wednesday afternoon," Farley says, offering a tight, emotionless smile. She advances toward the door, and only her warning look keeps me from following her. "Good day to both of you."

She nods to Will and turns on her heel, and like a brusque wraith, she's gone.

I stand there dumbfounded, attempting to process what just happened as her blonde hair flashes in the window.

Within the same hour . . . Kilorn and Farley . . . what just happened?

Not processing any of it, I whirl on Will. "Who the _hell_ was that?" I seethe, my fists bunching up. Though both of us know I have no intention of following through with anything.

"You are my most valuable customer, Barrow, but not my only customer," Will says, striding past me and returning to the counter. These days, it seems that everybody I know—or thought I knew—is going wayward. "She's just another client of mine."

So, uninterested in talking to this man, who apparently does business with people far worse than petty thieves, I turn to go after Farley, but through the windows, the blonde-haired woman is not to be seen.

Remembering something at the threshold of his shop, prepared to enter into the deafening July heat, I stop. To remove the phone from my pocket, glossy and unmarked. Completely different from my family's communal phone, five years old and hogged by Gisa. "You can pay me tomorrow." Tossing him the phone, I don't bother waiting for a sound to indicate if he caught it or not.

I'd honestly rather see Will fumble for it and embarrass himself than earn a small fifty.

* * *

"Anything interesting out on the job?" Bree eyeballs me as I tiptoe through our door. Dad's usually napping in the afternoon, and I do my best not to disturb him.

Like Mom, like me and all of my siblings save for Shade, Bree's eyes are dark brown, hair a rich chestnut color, and skin golden from the summer sun. Gisa's the only one that looks any different from the bunch of us, with her curling red hair and high cheekbones. And Shade was the only one who inherited our father's eyes: pretty honey.

"Nope," I say after a beat of hesitation. My brother doesn't need another weight to bear and knowing that Kilorn and his grocer are or aspire to be in a secretive and violent gang would hardly help. If Bree notices my pause, he doesn't explain his suspicions as he returns to watching our box television. "Have you had success in your job search yet?"

He rolls his eyes. "Have you?" he snaps back, an answer in and of itself. My brothers, sister, and I used to be closer, though money has permanently been a sore issue. Before Shade left, before Dad had to quit work, it felt like we were a family, not a heap of jaded people who lived together and nothing more than that.

 _At least I don't spend all the time that I'm awake in front of the TV. At least I do my damndest to support this family._

I want to yell at him my thoughts, to see pain on his lazy face, but I dig my nails into my palms. After three breaths, impossibly shallow for how long they last, I grit my teeth. "Have Mom make you a list to take to the store today," I say after a while. "Get out of the house, Bree. It's not healthy to mope around here twenty-four seven." I push my stolen bill into his hand and head for my shared room with Gisa.

I've heard some say that they wouldn't trade their homes for mansions. That home is home, no matter how rich or poor you are. But if I was awarded a choice, to stay in this shabby apartment or leave New York altogether for a fresh start, I would choose the latter without a wasted breath.

Our _house_ , as Mom calls it, is comprised of three bedrooms, a small dining room, a living room that leads into an outdated kitchen, and three-quarters of a bathroom. The furniture that we own was left here by the previous renters, and a few items were thrifted from a store a few blocks from here. The wallpaper is curling in on itself, our kitchen lights flicker, and the dripping of faucets is a constant.

Dad used to be more handy, eager for something to break just for the pleasure of fixing it. Not anymore.

My sister shouldn't be home for a while since she offered to walk herself home when I called her seamstress shop from a payphone. I'll get an earful of it later from Mom, but it would've taken too long to get to Kilorn had I waited around for her lessons today. That lecture will end up being worth it.

She purchased her new fabrics and threads, and then she went over to her sewing lessons. Money's stretched thin, but that's always been the policy: Gisa continues with her lessons, no matter what. Though I suppose that's not the case anymore: starting this summer, Gee's lessons became an apprenticeship. Free of cost and something that will get my sister into the best design schools in the country.

My feelings towards the subject are a mix of annoyance and unfortunate sisterly love. If one of us gets to live out our dreams, it should be her.

 _Why does Gisa get to take the lessons she likes but I can't dance anymore?_

I remember hissing those words at Mom and Dad six months ago. The argument was single-sided, final, but I made it anyway, practically in tears when I was told they couldn't afford my classes. But let's be real: they hadn't been able to afford them for years. Nonetheless, Mom made it work with overtime and bland food. But there are so many hours in a day, and now with Dad out of the decent-pay workforce, it's pointless.

Gisa's sewing lessons were practical, unlike dance, according to my parents, though they don't like to repeat it. She's always made a profit in selling her designs, though she's barely fifteen. I'm nowhere near the top of the dancing chain to make a cent.

My collection of shoes is tucked neatly behind a plastic storage bin under my bed. My family bets I threw it all out in rage, but I did not. Every moment I have alone in my room, I lock the door and tie on my pointe shoes. I go through the stretching routine I've followed since the day I entered my studio in bubblegum pink hair ties, then I do my strength training, and so on.

It's a cramped space, but I exploit it well. I use my dresser and walls to stretch my legs, do my splits on the strait between my bed and Gisa's. Her side of the room is a mirror of mine, with a bed and a dresser, a shared desk doubling as a nightstand between our beds.

If my bedroom was soundproof, that would be preferred, so that I could tap without causing my parents to go into cardiac arrest. In this part of town, it wouldn't be so odd to hear a gun go off. Instead, I shuffle my feet and shift my weight soundlessly, musicless, in my socks.

I often wonder, too much for my own wellbeing, what it would've been like if some happenstance had allowed me to continue dancing. Mom was working two jobs at the time, Dad was a telemarketer, and Shade was working at the gym. _Shade._

It was inevitable. Whether it had been that day or the next, they would've at some point told me what my classes were doing to our family. Slowly killing it from the inside, depleting them of money and time.

My toes are ugly things, with bruises and red marks from practice. And I tell myself, _there's nothing to gain from doing this; throw out your shoes and get over this useless obsession_. I've come close, dangling my taps over the dumpster outside. They'd make such a loud sound, metal on metal, but it might just set me free.

I focus my thoughts back to the task on hand, _pirouetting_ between the beds.

Enough. First thing tomorrow, I'm going pickpocketing on Wall Street. To collect however much money it'll take to pay off Farley to keep Kilorn at bay. It's the most profitable area of New York, and if I'm careful, I could make a couple thousand, between the money, credit cards, and jewelry I'm able to snatch.

But also the riskiest. The last thing I need is to get caught, end up in a police station for another overnight stay. But I'll do it anyway. I'll do it for Kilorn.

Because he will not share a life of forgotten dreams with me.


	3. Chapter 3

"Supper!" Mom hollers from the kitchen while I'm in the middle of my _fouettés_ , turns I've realized, that if I time them right, I won't kick my foot into anything.

But Mom's yell startles me, and with a kick, I end up face-planting onto my sister's bed.

A moment later, I'm shoving my shoes into my box, shoving the box under my bed.

I leave my room, glancing out the shuttered window to see the low sun in between the cracks. Time got away from me today; I probably spent two hours going over ballet.

I needed it. Between Kilorn and Farley, I needed to decompress through something, and there's nothing like dancing in my tiny bedroom to help me unwind.

It's no use thinking about it now anyway. Kilorn has to have time to cool off before I try calling him or knocking on his door. I doubt he's even home. _The Scarlet Street Fighters cannot be found_. Unless Kilorn already has an in with them, it's going to take him a little bit of effort to track that gang down.

Good. Make him work for it if he's so intent on destroying his life.

But I force the last few hours out of my mind as I enter our sparsely furnished living room and move across to reach the table tucked into the back.

The rest of my family already sits in the old wooden chairs enveloping the old wooden table, Dad at the head. Mom's distributed soup around the table, and Gisa's set out glasses for water and milk. I settle down across from my sister and next to Bree.

Seven o'clock on the dot every night, Mom, Dad, Bree, Tramy, Gisa, and I gather around the dinner table. We stay here for a half an hour, give or take, and though there are six of us, conversations are filled with small talk and otherwise painful lapses of silence. Gisa talks more than anyone else, telling us about her sewing and school. Mom will tell the occasional story, and Dad will share something he read in the paper. Bree and Tramy have nothing interesting going on in their lives, and I . . . well nobody wants to hear about what I stole on any given day.

I throw my money on the table every night, and somebody or other picks it off to be stuffed away. That's that.

In the Barrow household, anything goes at dinnertime. Slurping the remnants of our soup bowls, using the wrong sized fork . . . that's our thing. The shabby placemats over the table are stained thanks to my brothers, though it wasn't long ago that Mom washed them. Bree and Tramy have a burping contest once a week. I can't remember the last time we said grace.

 _Something bland_ , I think as I behold the soup bowl before me. Something with too many vegetables.

"Minestrone soup," Mom says, noticing how I stare at my food.

Though the comment isn't for him, Dad mutters his thanks before picking up his spoon to dig in.

Bree and Tramy happen to both be unemployed at the moment, but they have no problem eating as much of Mom's food as they're offered. My brothers are just as fast to begin eating, following Dad after a moment's pause. They'll go back for seconds before I'm halfway through my bowl. I roll my eyes incredulously as I watch them devour their bowls. Boys. Geez.

Only when Mom picks up her spoon at her place on the opposite head of the table, closest to me and Gisa, do I let myself eat, lifting my foggy and slightly bent spoon to my lips.

Yes, yes, too many vegetables, paired with a portion of pasta and a broth. And as much as I'd like to complain just once, I don't. Not when the food my mother cooks is better than I could ever do.

Gisa and Mom haven't let me in the kitchen for years after realizing that I'm hopeless when it comes to the culinary arts of life.

Any fragments of conversation my family members offer up dissolve into awkward silence unnervingly quickly. We all say our piece, respond with a "good" when Bree asks us how each of our days were. Though nobody really means it. Mom got home from her shift at the hotel a couple of hours ago. My brothers and father didn't do much of anything, as is the usual.

There's a reason for that, by the way. At least for Dad.

While six of us might dine at the table, only five chairs surround it when we're not eating.

See, Dad sits in a wheelchair.

That's why he doesn't work outside the home anymore.

Before the _accident_ , Dad was a police officer with the NYPD. I was too young to remember much of that time, only blurry images of Dad walking through the door with his uniform on. He worked for a precinct nearby, and I'm proud to say that he actually cared about his job, unlike most of the asshole police in the neighborhood. Dad would give out tickets, patrol his assigned areas, and make arrests; he wasn't a detective or anything high-ranking, but his job paid the bills.

Before the _accident_ , Mom and Dad had managed to put away a decent amount for a home upstate. The two of them had grand plans. This apartment that they've lived in for twenty years was only supposed to last ten, and eventually, they were going to buy a house in a nice-enough neighborhood, maybe in Albany or Buffalo. To at last give their children a chance at a better life with what little they could offer.

My parents were raised in impoverished households. They say that children, for the most part, will make the same amount of money as their parents do. So far, that statistic holds true for my family, my siblings. For me. An awful, vicious cycle.

From my understanding, Mom and Dad were just like their children. Grew up in a poor New York neighborhood, didn't bother trying in their academics, because they knew they'd never get anywhere with the kind of education their crappy public school was offering.

Getting out of New York City never happened. For a reason I can barely remember.

Since then, we've been stuck. Grown bitter. Mom works too much, Dad can't work at all, my brothers don't do anything, Gisa has better things to focus on, and I . . . well, I can't stand the idea of submitting to a nine-to-five job and turn to illegal methods instead.

Yet six stomachs still exist in the Barrow household. We live week-to-week, not even that most of the time. Will's generous when it comes to rent, and I'm sure that we're a payment behind.

If we wanted to leave, I don't think we could. We're just . . . stuck.

As stuck as Dad is stuck in his chair.

I was seven or eight the morning Mom took her five kids to a hospital downtown.

The whole situation was pure chance, pure . . . misfortune. Around then, Dad had been taking extra shifts a few days a week to earn some extra cash. _Another year_ , he said, _another year, and we'll be on our way upstate_. Mom didn't like it, but he ended up taking extra shifts on Friday nights a lot. _Friday nights are when the people of Manhattan are at their worst,_ Mom said. _Please don't go_.

 _Please don't go_.

For some reason, I remember hearing Shade repeat Mom's words from my bedroom. Gisa was already fast asleep, but I lay awake with the door cracked open.

 _Please don't go_.

The money didn't matter that night. I just wish he had listened.

A couple of rich college kids had decided to take a joyride through the city. It was around midnight, and it was Dad who took up the call when somebody reported them. Now of course, speeding in Manhattan in something pretty hard to do, no matter how stupid you are, but these kids managed to pull it off, switching lanes, freaking out drivers by honking their horns . . . when Mom told me those small details years later, it felt as though I had been there, in the bright lights of the city, riding so very fast.

Dad chased them out of Manhattan, onto the Brooklyn Bridge, into Brooklyn and then into Queens. Things got out of control from there in the less-busy parts of the city, and even when Dad called in backup . . . it was already too late. Whatever kid who was driving was good, whipping around corners of residential streets, whizzing through traffic lights, somehow making it onto the highway near JFK without causing a single accident. He wasn't even drunk.

Backup was a minute away when Dad lost control of the wheel. The kid was in a fancy sports car, something meant to be raced. Dad's cop car was good, but not . . . that good. It had just recently rained, and there the car went, drifting, drifting until it meant its fate on the side of the road, at a guardrail.

So Dad went to the emergency room, having entered his car being able to walk and leaving it without control of his legs. The doctors were useless, stitching up the cuts on his face and setting his dislocated shoulder, but there was nothing to be done about his back.

The precinct paid for his expenses. That was our only consolation.

The kid and his friends were arrested later, only to be bailed out by their rich parents. They paid their way out of the charges we pressed and never faced an actual trial. They even paid off the press to keep the story out of the paper.

Dad leaves the apartment a few times a month now. He's ashamed of what happened to him, blames himself for it, even when the rest of us blame those rich bastards. Over the years, he's taken up a dozen different jobs over the computer, each one more unfulfilling than the last. I wish he'd go out and find a real job, but I can't imagine how I'd even suggest that to him.

So we've been stuck ever since. Our savings ran down the drain during the time we had to adjust to living without Dad's income, and now . . . _we're stuck_.

For just a moment, I look to Dad with my spoon raised halfway to my lips. He's only in his forties, but hints of grey hair already show themselves, his honey eyes lack the brightness they once possessed, and his skin is much paler than mine from not going outside. Greyish stubble dots his face, cheekbones soft with age. The strong body of a police officer is long gone, having given in to his condition; Dad slouches in his chair as he finishes off his soup.

Before he notices, I turn back to my bowl and down my spoon of soup. Bree and Tramy have sauntered off to the kitchen for another bowl, and Mom and Gisa slowly progress through their first.

Over a backdrop of silence, two things permeate the air: the sound of spoons against ceramic bowls and heat.

 _How 'bout that weather we're having?_

It wouldn't be the first time somebody half-jokingly said it at the table.

But I turn my attention to Gisa instead, who hates the quiet more than everybody else and launches into a story about the project her sewing mistress assigned her this week.

" . . . but then she told me, _oh, no! That fabric just won't do! You do know who you're making that dress for, don't you, Miss Barrow?_ " Gisa mimics her mistress in a high-pitched, mocking voice. "So then she sent me back to buy a new bolt that looked the _exact same_ but cost double . . ."

Gisa, out of all of us, is the talented, un-stuck one. Someday, she'll be good enough to open her own company, sell beautiful dresses and skirts and whatever else she feels like sewing. For now, she continues school, does well in it, while still honing her craft inside a highrise in Midtown. It's no Ralph Lauren or Michael Kors, but the company she apprentices for grows in popularity every day, or so I've heard from Gisa's yabbering on about it.

If it's in the Garment District and hasn't forfeited its portion of the highrise yet, it must be doing well.

And if Gisa's any good, which I know she is, then she'll get a scholarship into a fashion school, and my parents will use any drop of savings they've accumulated all these years to help pay for the loose ends.

My sister has dreams of being the best at her art. I don't have the stupidity to question it for a second. I've seen her designs. She's good.

She's great.

My parents nod and smile, happy for their youngest child but also totally lost as she continues on about the dress she's designing for some has-been Broadway understudy.

Gisa's eyes are always brighter than the rest of ours. They may be the same color, but there's a life in them that has since died out in my parents. Dying out in my brothers, in mine. She's easily the prettiest of us siblings, with her perfect, freckled and porcelain skin; straight nose; glossy, curling hair that goes to her shoulders; and a sense of style that could kill.

Bree and Tramy return to the table together, pulling out their chairs and sitting down in tandem. But no, they're not twins. While they both inherited Dad's height, unlike me and Gee, and work out enough to have bulky, muscular figures, Bree's a year older than Tramy. Almost twenty-two and almost twenty-one. Bree has closely-shaven hair, and Tramy's grown a beard, that chestnut, river-brown shade.

My two brothers have jumped from job to job ever since finishing high school with barely passing grades. They aren't unintelligent, Bree and Tramy. Just unmotivated by school, like me. Part of me wishes—for their own good—that Mom and Dad would kick them out already, force them into the real world.

But I'll be eighteen soon enough too, with no idea as to what I'm doing with myself.

Farley, that woman I had the misfortune and luck of meeting yesterday, will forever know that I'm a high school dropout. It shouldn't bother me as much as it does, when Farley looks rougher than me, with her cropped hair and neck tattoo. But I still wish that Will hadn't told her.

It doesn't matter, it's in the past, and it's my fault.

My fault that I've probably ruined my chances of having a decent life with that choice.

It's been about as long as I've stopped dancing in the studio as I haven't gone to school. In the state of New York, the legal dropout age is sixteen. I made it to seventeen, halfway through Junior Year. It was January when I left the studio, and after all of that pain, the _feeling_ of my long-sought dreams being demolished, I didn't return for the second semester.

It wasn't like I was going to college anyway.

I had one dream in mind, however far tucked away it was.

But no, my studio couldn't have been good enough to mold a professional ballerina. No way. Too scared for an answer, I never actually asked my instructors if I was good enough. But I doubt I was. And besides, it hardly matters anymore.

Apart from the technique I still practice tirelessly, I run four times a week in Central Park, and more for each time I get caught stealing on the job. With the security cameras lining every street in Manhattan, those additional steps add up. The crowds are usually adequate to get lost in, but once in a while . . . they really make me run for it.

No, it's not an honest way to make money, and I'm not happy to call myself a felon. But at least I steal from the rich and give to the poor.

The poor being my family.

I rarely take the subway, so I walk miles a day to get to the nicer, busier parts of town. Sometimes that's part of my run, depending. But I never pickpocket people north of One-Hundredth East Street.

Besides for not having enough money to be worth it, the people on the north side of the city are expecting it, bracing themselves for it, and ready to fight back. On occasion, I've seen people in my neighborhood try to mug somebody else, only to end up being the one who gets stolen from. And those have been full-grown males.

If I ever get caught, and if my victim fights back, there'll be people to see it. To help me, even if I don't deserve it.

It's dangerous alright, but it will indeed _always_ be worth it. With Mom as a hotel maid, Dad testing out yet another online job, two of my brothers unemployed, and a third one gone . . . the money and goods I bring in benefit us, even if my parents won't deign to admit it.

Mom notices me staring at the wall and snaps her worn fingers in my face.

I blink out of it, my thoughts of self-reflection corroding away in an instant.

"Yes?" I ask.

"Shade sent a letter," she says quietly, and I perk up even as my gut drops.

"Can I see it?" I ask politely, trying not to come across as too eager.

Mom gestures across the table to Dad, who's already pulling it out from the pocket at the side of his wheelchair.

"Enjoy," he says, eyes connecting with mine for a split second before he resumes eating his soup.

 _Shade_. My third and youngest brother. The one that we don't talk about as he doesn't live with us anymore.

One day, my brother just left the house. He's a grown adult, has been for over a year now, but he _just_ left. The explanation Shade offered Mom over the phone on the third day he had gone missing was that he got a good job, but he couldn't live at home anymore. Mom started screaming at him, accusing him of all sorts of nasty things with a red-hot anger I had never seen before.

" _Drugs_?" she asked him, clutching the landline in a bony and white hand.

" _Did you join a gang_?" she asked him, shaking the telephone so violently I thought she might drop it.

He spurned off the first allegation with contempt, but I still remember, listening in on the bedroom line, there was a slight pause after she wailed the second.

He hasn't come home since. Not for months.

Shade writes letters instead of visiting. Letters. Like the internet doesn't work and emailing doesn't exist. The text on the college-ruled paper is always and exactly one page long, never more and never less. And the writing is never about himself, but detailing the silly things he sees in various places, and questions. He asks _so_ many questions about our lives.

"Thanks," I return, my spoon plunking in the bowl as I unfold the piece of notebook paper.

One page. Exactly one page, as always, penned in stalky handwriting.

 _Dear family, I am alive. Obviously._

 _I hope that life is treating you all fine as well, and I hope that I can come home soon, but I can't make any promises._

He goes on, writing and complaining about the heat, wishing for a big old storm to wash away that disgusting sweat that clings to almost everybody around town. He gives the address of a recently opened store Gisa might like and yells through the paper for Bree and Tramy to get off their asses and get some jobs they might actually keep.

He tells me to be careful on the streets, berating me to get my GED and use my brain for once. Half-jokingly.

He sends his love to Mom and Dad.

 _Again, I swear if this heat keeps going on, the dawn's going to start sweating red._

 _Love and best regards, —S_

"Thanks," I say again, passing the paper back to Dad.

"It'd be nice if he came home," Gisa says.

"You know he always says that," Mom says, probably a little more snappy than she means for it to be.

Tempted to suggest that I go down to that P.O. box in East Village, I force myself to take another slurp of soup. That address is the only way we can trace Shade, though if I ever attempted it, I'd have to time it right, possibly loiter around the post office for hours. Who knows if he even picks up our letters the day they arrive? Shade, street-smart Shade, would know to wait a couple of days so we'd fail in tracking him if we ever dared to try.

"I still wonder what his job is," I murmur in between my lips, almost a thought to myself.

"Mom still wonders if he's in a gang," Gisa replies and scoffs, as if she doesn't believe it for a second. She heard that pause too, fourteen at the time.

The silence that follows at the table tells me that the rest of my family—including myself—isn't entirely sold on it.

He could be anywhere in New York City. The monthly letters are a small comfort, a reassurance that he's okay. We know nothing more than that he has a _job_ , can't live at home, and refuses to let us come to him.

It makes my problems seem like mere annoyances, when Shade could be anywhere, doing anything.

When nobody speaks up again at the table, I excuse myself.

It's always like this, whenever a letter comes. _A reassurance that he's okay_ , but also a reminder: that Shade's gone. Everybody in the family has their various theories, but we're already spent enough time debating them. When he'll come back, if he'll come back . . . what he's doing, who he's with . . . meaningless, unanswerable questions.

I retreat back to my room, closing the door with a quiet click.

To stop thinking about my brother, to figure out how in the world I'm getting out of Wall Street alive.


	4. Chapter 4

"Haven't you filled your weekly quota for stealing things that _aren't_ yours?" Gisa catechizes into my ear with that half-serious snark of hers.

Today, she wears a blue pinstriped dress, pieced together with transparent buttons down the middle, cutting off at her knees.

Another benefit of her job: there isn't a scrap of clothing in her closet that wasn't sewn by her own fingers. Her talent has saved us hundreds of dollars since she hasn't bought new outfits in years.

"Besides, I thought you gave up hunting for fools on Wall Street after the cops arrested you overnight."

I roll my eyes at the memory. Three years ago, I was getting a little too confident in my pickpocket talent and decided, like the fourteen-year-old fool I was, to try my tricks on New York's finest. It didn't occur to me that the rich might have more eyes than the idiots in Times Square do, that maybe, just maybe, some of them keep bodyguards and henchmen around.

I landed myself an overnight in the NYPD headquarters for _that_ mistake. Save for the evening my parents told me I was done with dance, it was the worst night of my life, sitting in that grimy, quiet enclosure. At least the police had the decency to give a poor teenager a secluded cell, away from the drunks and actual felons of New York.

But if they really had the decency, wouldn't have they let me go with a little slap on the cheek and a warning? Not for a lowly citizen like me, I suppose.

"This week is different, Gee," I say to her, silently hoping she doesn't ask me more.

I don't know why I bother to hope such things, with a sister as smart as Gisa at my side.

Warily, she gazes upward at the buildings that scrape the sky. The streets in southern Manhattan are compact, squeezed in with concrete jungles on both edges of the sidewalks. In spite of the sun, the streets are somewhat shadowed, darkened by the tall buildings.

Around us, men and women dressed in suits and skirts and dresses scuttle about, pushing through revolving doors, snapping orders on phones, and waving down taxis to carry them to their next meetings.

Gisa halts, and her black fashion boots make a scuff on the pavement. She leans against a construction cone set between two others, giving me a frank look. "My lessons aren't for another hour. So why are we here, Mare? I thought after last time . . . you were done with Wall Street."

It isn't often my sister and I have real conversations like these. So, sighing, I glance around us, at the looming buildings, blocked-up traffic, and annoyed people, and lean onto one of the other cones. I know for a fact that I stick out like a sore thumb on Wall Street, not dressed like a tourist nor like a businesswoman.

And as always, good intentions or not, Gisa insists on being difficult by leaning against the cone, like cattle awaiting slaughter.

Or a doe, awaiting slaughter by wolves. _The Wolves of Wall Street_.

"Kilorn," I begin but immediately trail off, clueless of where to start. Has she even heard of the Street Fighters? My sister has never once stepped into Will's store and doesn't bother with the gossip of our apartment building. "He lost his posh job yesterday, and now he says . . . he feels like he has no purpose. He's going to try to join a gang. The . . . Scarlet Street Fighters."

The way I explain it sounds so incredibly stupid, but it's still the truth.

While she mulls over my words, I tilt my face up towards the rising sun, nearly at its height for the day. The shadows do little to keep the heat from reaching the sidewalks, turning them hot and blistering, and the sun just as quickly heats my face.

As I turn back to her, Gisa's brows are knitted in confusion, and she's tugging at a loose seam at the hip of her dress. Unlike her, to slowly ruin her art.

Her face stays passive, but that doesn't mean I can't pick up on other telltale signs. Her feet alternate in tapping the ground in some rhythm. Unlike her to move idly.

"So are you going to pay Kilorn off to stay out of it?" she asks quietly, not truly wanting the answer.

I roll my eyes, not at her, but towards myself. "Not exactly." I know better than to try to bribe Kilorn. He'd take it as an insult more than as free money. "I met someone in Will's store yesterday. She's a member of the Fighters, and a high-ranking one, I'm pretty sure. She said that she won't take incentives, _but_ ," I continue, proceeding to tell her my logic.

Diana Farley's gang, just as any illegal band of people, needs supplies. Supplies cost money. If I can snatch a couple jammed wallets, a couple of credit cards, she won't have the restraint to reject my offer the second go-around.

Gisa stares at the pale building in front of us as I go through the monologue I practiced in my head last night, in anticipation that I'd be telling her about Kilorn and the Fighters. Stares and stares, analyzing every cement block and pane of glass, even as her eyes finally contort with pain.

"You should do it," she blurts when I'm halfway done repeating the various reasons I'm being so, _so_ stupid.

I stare back at her, just as wide-eyed. "What?"

"We already have one brother who might as well be lost. And Kilorn, blood aside . . . he deserves more." Gisa pushes away from the neon orange cone and hops onto the sidewalk, holding a dainty hand out to me.

I accept it gladly, happy to see her approval, however shocking. "You're not going to give me any crap or eye-rolling for this?"

Gisa indeed gives me an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "He's basically family. Just don't end up in a police precinct this time. Or if you do, try to get detained in one closer to home so Mom doesn't complain about having to go so far to pick you up."

She speaks lightly, humorously, even though the pain in her eyes stays, mixing with concern now.

"Thanks for coming all the way down here with me," I blurt, sensing that if we don't part ways soon I'll lose my nerve. "Get back on the subway and get to class. Meet me back here in three hours?"

She offers a curt nod before scampering off the direction we came. Gisa may rarely clamp her mouth shut, but she won't tell anyone of my plan. She knows what Kilorn would do if he ever found out I was manipulating things like this.

Even if I save his ass for it.

* * *

Today, I ferried my finest clothing from my closet, yet my appearance pales in comparison to the women I see exit monsters of buildings, adorning tailor-made clothing head to toe.

Pencil skirts, form-fitting dresses, and pantsuits breeze by as I walk further into the heart of the wolves' den. My body is bound by a bleak and simple gray dress, and my toes grow numb in a too-tight pair of boots.

My work can be entertaining, at least. I inwardly snicker at dumb businessmen and see all types of interesting events as I meander down the streets, bumping shoulders frequently now that it's lunchtime. Men bicker—some under their breaths, others incredibly loud—at street corners, undoubtedly over money and women. Interns balance stacks of coffee cartons, lunches, and the day's newspaper in their arms, trying not to stumble and have it all come crashing down. And then there are the disoriented tourists, who have found themselves so far from Midtown, who crane their necks so far back their heads might just fall off.

Only distractions, meager attempts to quell my taut nerves and rolling stomach.

I've done it enough times. I shouldn't be so scared of stealing from these men, who perhaps make up the most arrogant and oblivious sect of Manhattan.

But the bodyguards . . .

If they're here, I don't know. They look just like ordinary men.

Each of my catches is planned with a careful and wary survey of both my surroundings and _their_ surroundings. Potential guards . . . security cameras . . . et cetera.

Before long, the worn canvas purse on my shoulder contains five wallets, two watches, and one diamond bracelet as I cross the street and continue onto the next block. I'll dump the credit cards onto Will, though most will be frozen. The watches and bracelet will amount to a thousand at best . . . maybe more, if the bracelet proves valuable. I couldn't say that there'll be more than another thousand dollars in the wallets.

I count the seconds since I plucked my most recent wallet from the back of a man's pocket. _Forty-one, forty-two_. . .

A minute. I force myself to distance each pickpocket by a minute, even as I think about how Farley would laugh if I went to her with what I have now.

I pass by a grand pillared building, much shorter than the rest of its neighbors. The streets have narrowed from their already slim state, giving way to more shadows and gloom, flags and banners off buildings and the occasional cheery shirt the only reprieves. In so many ways, Wall Street is Time Square's dark reflection and counterpart, shadows where there would be electric billboards, business where there would be theatres and restaurants.

No better than the tourists I ridicule, I relax my neck as I look upwards, towards the ever-present blue sky that seems farther away than usual. Tips of steel and concrete pierce into its innocence.

 _Sixty_.

Another easy shifting of my hand earns me another wallet. I shove it into my purse a moment later, nothing more than a girl sifting through her bag for a compact.

Which I conveniently use to check the man behind me, who simply continues on his merry way.

No cars or taxis run along this block, and I drift from one side of the street to the other, like a phantom drifting through the crowd. Invisible and forgotten—just as I want to be today. I dissolve through a torrent of businessmen, then a line of tourists, before settling on a path at the street's edge.

Yet—

"What the—" a woman says rather loudly from behind me, voice full of dismay and shock.

I try, but I turn my head to find the woman, who's stopped in the middle of Wall Street.

She's middle-aged, wears sunglasses, a blazer and skirt.

I didn't mark her as I pickpocketed today. No, I took nothing from her.

But it's not a barren wrist she stares anyway. Though her phone is about three inches from her eyes.

I turn back around and place a hand to my heart, realizing how quickly it sped up. How my legs slightly shake, as if having prepared themselves to run in these silly heels.

Nonetheless, my grip on my compact tightens as I brush off nonexistent dirt and dust from my dress, comb my fingers through my hair. Take a few deep breaths, allowing my counting to restart.

 _One, two, three_ . . .

But echoes of the woman's exclamation sound around me when I allow myself back into the world. Dozens tap at their phones, tilting them sideways to watch something.

For once, it isn't me who did it, who stirred a street of Manhattan into a frenzy before vanishing into a crowd.

Within a moment, a blink, Wall Street's become a photograph of inanimate humans, particularly the business people, who wear expressions of terror, confusion, and vexation. The tourists turn around themselves, pulling out phones and shoving them back into pockets. Though I don't know whatever it is that concerns these people so thoroughly, I find myself unable to move, like the tourists. Unsure of what to do as half of Wall Street fails to recall the city encasing them.

For the peace has rendered me useless. Pickpocketing requires motion from both me and my subjects.

Covertly as I can, I sneak my eyes over to the nearest phone, only to find a half-familiar news anchor on the screen. The woman holding the device doesn't smile as she shifts it slightly, allowing me to see at a better angle.

"Thanks," I mutter quickly, intent on hearing what's got Wall Street panicked this time.

I expect for the stock market to have crashed. Not what I actually see on the screen.

A news anchor stares grimly at her camera, the terror Wall Street feels written into the deepest creases of her face.

" _BREAKING NEWS: NYC Businesses Vandalized and Threatened_."

Well now. I raise a brow to that.

". . . the three identified attacks have each occurred in southern Manhattan, centered around Wall Street and targeting big businesses. If you're nearby, my team and I urge you to move to somewhere safer until new information is released. This could be the first of many attacks, according to our sources."

A sign on my left reads the word "WALL," in all capital letters, and "ST," in a smaller print.

But I haven't finished my work.

"The buildings' interiors were badly damaged, with estimations of millions of dollars of destruction. Though the footage hasn't yet been delivered to us, the incidents only reported by the three companies at noon, it is to be assumed these criminals broke in overnight."

The anchor turns to the side, listening to someone off the air. Her face pales considerably, to the shade of a terrifying porcelain doll.

She must have a rich husband whom she's worried for.

Following the news anchor's announcement to evacuate points of interest, people begin to shuffle off the streets, into buildings, around corners, down subway stairs. I imagine many know friends who work at the three businesses, probably going to check up on them.

An attack on a few businesses hardly scares me. I'm more interested in the receding wallets.

Whether for my sake or disinterest, the woman whose phone I peer into remains. And when the news anchor returns from her chat, she straightens her spine.

"It appears," she starts, gulping. "An organization has claimed this attack on Manhattan as their own. The Scarlet Street Fighters, a locally based radical group has taken responsibility for this series of planned—"

The phone screen goes black.

"My battery should be charged," the woman at my side argues, more to herself. She taps a finger at the screen more than a few times.

The Street Fighters . . .

But a new face comes onto the screen, dashing away any hope of understanding.

I take a few blinks at the face, taking in the cropped blonde hair, blue eyes, the rest of her obscured by a bandanna, scarlet as the blood in my veins.

Diana Farley.

She doesn't introduce herself or bother with any finesse.

"You forget about us, didn't you?" She huffs out a callous laugh through her kerchief. "The lower-classes, I mean to say. Condemned to work in the shadows of your skyscrapers _and_ your corruption. The rest of the world might turn a blind eye to it, but not us. We've never once forgotten about you, pushed away; ignored.

"Bribery, extortion, embezzlement, fraud . . . I could go on," she says, tutting. "The citizens of this city make _your_ buildings taller, prettier, rather than employ the unemployed and repair the rotting neighborhoods of this city. _What an obsession_.

"Your empires will rot like that. Because the Scarlet Street Fighters plan on taking over _every_ borough of New York if that's what it takes to _corrupt_ and _slaughter_ your precious profits. So until you agree to this change . . . enjoy finding your buildings the way we ransacked them with _such_ ease last night.

"Rise, Red as the Dawn."

* * *

I went for a walk.

A very long walk that had me in Midtown with enough time to return to Wall Street where Gisa and I agreed to meet.

Three hours later, as we agreed, Gee comes running around a street corner, a bag brimming with half-finished designs at her shoulder.

A sweeping gaze from my head to my toes tells her I'm fine, that no buildings blew up and no Street Fighters launched themselves at me from alleys in the wake of that video. Geez.

Still, she asks, "You okay?"

I nod, more mentally shaken than physically. The walk to Midtown did little to ease my rapidly fraying sanity. First I hear about the Fighters through Kilorn, then I see Farley. Twice.

What the hell kind of week is this?

 _They_ managed to break into multiple high-security complexes without issue, without a single one of them getting caught. The news anchor never said how exactly the buildings were vandalized, only that it was awful, expensive damage. How . . . how could a bunch of ragtag brutes come up with the money to sneak past security like that in the first place?

They must be much better connected than I initially thought, not merely petty felons.

So powerless. It only reaffirms how I have nothing to offer her.

She must see my frustration, my fear because Gisa takes me by the wrist. Her eyes are wide, full of some emotion I've never seen from my sister. Raw determination and . . . anger.

"Give me a minute. Loop around the block and meet me in a minute."

The streets have become a shell of what they were not so long ago, no more than two dozen on the block, another dozen on the next.

Among the two dozen walks a group of seven men hurrying down the block.

Gisa tilts her head towards them, not twenty feet from our place at the construction cones. "We're not done. Not yet." Before I can blink, my sister is charging ahead of me, right towards the outcropping of men.

I open my mouth to say something as she charges forward, then relaxes into a path parallel to the oncomers.

And like the little amateur she is, Gisa slips her hand into one of the men's coats at the back of the pack. He looks tall and young from here, and my jaw clenches.

Her first correction: choose the weakest link. In this case, that would be the stocky, slow-walking man on the other side of the group. It doesn't work consistently, but she'd have a better—

We're the only damn people on this street, the workers and tourists gone. Cars still inch through the streets, but their horns don't blare anymore. No sound, no uproar to hide what she's doing.

Even I wouldn't dare it. And I've done some _stupid_ things.

Gisa doesn't move in a particularly subtle way. Her steps reflect that determination and rare anger instead.

She makes it two steps of determination and anger before the man's hand clamps around her wrist. I finally locate my sense and move my feet.

The words to apologize and beg are halfway formed in my mouth, and my body's made it halfway across the distance.

The man whirls on her, taking one sneering, disgusted look.

He throws her to the ground just as I come within speaking distance of him.

Gisa goes face first, sprawling out a hand to brace herself.

Her right hand takes the brunt of it, wrist bending too far as her arm keeps coming forward, Gisa's mouth crushing into her shoulder as she emits a shriek of pain.

I hardly process it, don't allow myself to think about how that's her sewing hand.

He stares at her, perhaps—hopefully—not realizing he hurt something.

"Get your sister under control, girl," he says, turning on me with a snarl.

Several of the men look at me with similar expressions, and I don't argue.

I don't have anything to say at all as I look down at my sister, curled up on the ground with one hand in the other.

* * *

I took Gisa home, made sure nobody bumped into her on the subway, and asked her if she needed to stop into a store to buy anything for her wrist.

She stared right ahead on the subway and asked, " _With what money?_ " Certainly not my hundred-dollar bills or frozen credit cards.

It wasn't sarcastic or spiteful. It still felt like a knife to my gut.

Barely glancing into the living room I opened the door to the apartment, gave her a gentle nudge inside, but didn't follow her in.

My parents won't blame me, and neither will Gisa, despite all that she is. But none of them will believe their own words if I've learned anything from my seventeen years living with them. They'll put on their sad smiles, Dad will give me a pat on the back, Mom a hug. It doesn't change my obligations. My responsibilities.

Since the day that we sold our car, I've had the task of protecting her from the moment we leave the apartment to when we re-enter it. The rest of our family doesn't even know that I allow Gisa to walk herself to work after we reach the outskirts of Times Square.

A bad sprain, from what I can tell, that'll keep her from her apprenticeship for the rest of the summer. She could only move her wrist a fraction when she tested it on the subway. And it breaks me in a million ways, but we don't have the money or insurance for a trip to the hospital. Not when it's not broken.

Now I walk the streets of my neighborhood, which I've long since lost the fear of.

And I have not forgotten my mission.

If there was a point, I'd be back on Wall Street. But due to the attacks, everyone's retreated to their homes for the night. I'd imagine the security companies are getting a nice influx of calls right about now.

I'm not bound to make much, but one woman's trash is another woman's treasure. I'll make a few bucks and snag a nice bracelet for Gisa.

An apology.

I stalk by a local tavern, known as the GrAveyard. I never understood why the A's capitalized.

The front buzzes with beer logos, alight in red, blue, green, and yellow. Even in the dim lighting, it's obvious how badly the windows are in need of a washing. But its name never deters, and I ponder entering. Bars are a goldmine, and one never knows how many drunken and idiotic rich folk have found their way to this dump.

Before I enter, I snag a reach into the pocket of a loiterer, blocking one of the signs.

As I reach his wallet, a wickedly quick hand clamps my wrist, just as that stranger did Gisa.

"Thief," he says with eyes a beautiful red and gold.


	5. Chapter 5

I don't reel backward or fight the stranger with molten eyes as his grip tightens, twists around to face me completely. Just stare at him, assessing his strengths and weaknesses, madly pulling together a plot regarding how I'm getting out of here in one piece. "Obviously," I say with an edge of fabricated humor.

Young, maybe a year or two older than myself, but the man is a foot taller than me. His inky black hair glistens in the moonlight, almost curling. Even in the shadows, his face is tanned by the summer sun, complimenting his hair nicely. And though he wears a black sweatshirt and loose-fitting jeans, his jaw is sculpted out of rock and his hand on my wrist is solid iron.

So strength will not be a weakness when I make my move, then.

The stranger watches me too, and something about the way he eyes my generic and dirty dress bothers me. He looks to my shoes, which are equally disappointing, and then the gold travels up to my face, soaked in pity.

His hand releases my wrist, and it drops limply to my side. Confusion surges through me, and then some as he reaches into his jeans pocket, pulling out a crisp hundred dollar bill.

"Take it," he says, nodding to his own money.

I merely stare at the bill, half-obscured in the scope of nearby lamplights and the brilliant city two miles south. Against the indigo sky, the buildings shine brightly even in my periphery, each of their windows like a star. The actual stars' reflections shimmer on the East River, to the left.

As daunting as that skyline often seems, it's no safer here, on the sidewalk outside of the brick bar. The buildings certainly aren't as menacing, small and fracturing and spray-painted, but bad things happen here too. I remind myself of that as I look up from the bill.

The man in the hooded sweatshirt bleeds back into existence, his hand nudging the bill into mine.

"Why."

He shakes his head. "You need it more than I do."

Though pickpocketing is hardly better than accepting money from strangers, my hand takes a long while to curl around the bill. It reminds me of the weight I carry in my purse, every one of those credit cards frozen by this hour.

"Thank you," I say, biting my tongue to avoid a witticism. Why does this man give me his own money when he has every right to call the police on me?

 _At least Mom would've gotten her wish to pick me up at a closer precinct_ , I think darkly.

He starts walking in the opposite direction of my apartment, but faltering, the man turns back around to face me. "My name's Cal," he says by way of formal introduction outside this gross little bar. "Let me walk you home—it's not safe to be out here so late at night."

Cal. He walks to me, stopping at a respectable distance.

"Mare Barrow," I reply, though I should know better than to give Cal—the man I just attempted to steal from—a last name. He holds out his hand to shake mine, but I cross my arms. "Somebody with the likes of your wallet shouldn't be out here so late, either. You may look scary in that hoodie of yours, but the men in that bar are ten times worse, I promise."

Cal drops his hand, neatly tucking it behind his back with the other. He steals a look at the bar, the windows as dirty as they were five minutes ago. "I can take care of myself. Yet you were going to go in there?"

Shrugging, I start into a walk down the cracking street, not waiting to see if he'll follow me. "I've learned the tricks of the trade over the years. Besides, most of them are too drunk to stand, let alone assault me."

Most.

With his height, Cal catches up to me with no trouble. "Over the years?" I have half the mind to snap at him for interrogating me like this, judging the things I've done to take care of my family when they couldn't fend for themselves. I only think twice because of the hundred pinched between my fingers. "You're not older than eighteen." Sadness traces his tone.

"Seventeen," I say, craning my head to look at the man I've barely met. "And my family needs the money, questionable or not." I eye him again, and despite the ordinary clothes . . . "You're not from around here, are you?"

He seems to question it for a moment, gazing around at the lonely street.

Then Cal becomes interested in the pavement, his eyes glued to the ground. Almost as though he's afraid to meet my eyes. "No. I'm not."

The way he maintains his shoulders as we walk, relaxed and pressed backward, reminds me of a dancer, a habit I still keep up with to this day. He holds himself tall and keeps this . . . awareness of his body about him. Interesting.

But if he isn't some East Harlem drunk, then what is he?

When Cal comes to terms with the fact that I don't plan on speaking again, he says, "Well, as I don't live here. Do you like East Harlem?"

An idle piece of conversation and he better know it. My knees nearly buckle under me, but I keep walking, the apartment fast-approaching. Nobody, _nobody_ likes living here. And maybe Cal sincerely means the question, but I can't help but find it hilarious. The buildings in East Harlem are ancient and rundown, the streets are dirty, and fights break out every time a streetlamp stops working.

"Does anyone?" I ask a question for his question, pausing on the sidewalk to motion around. "Though I don't spend much time at home anyway. My profession demands many hours." To hide the pain in my voice, I give him a little wink. "Better than living up there isn't it?" I point towards Midtown's skyline. "Better than living a life with everything handed to you."

His throat bobbles and I wonder if I've hit a nerve. Cal can't be overly rich—the son of a Wall Street man wouldn't end up in the claws of East Harlem—but maybe he sees things differently. Differently than somebody who's had so many years to become so jaded.

"Tell me," he says, coming out of whatever emotion I bestowed upon him. "Is there anything you like to do? You know, other than pickpocket from innocents and harass unwitting men?" Cal cracks a smile, crooked and light.

I huff, glaring. He has a sense of humor to match my own.

Still, that hundred burns a hole of guilt in my pocket. "I used to dance," I whisper, and his eyebrows raise. "I was good at it too, my teachers told me. Really good." Yet my story didn't end the way it does for princesses in between the crisp covers of fairy tale books.

Then, not having any obligation to tell him about my life, I explain to him how everything has gone to shit and hell since the day I quit dance.

Cal listens, probably much more enthralled than a stranger should be.

His ears are perked as I tell him how I cried the afternoon my parents pulled me from my dance lessons. It had been a messy, awful day of arguing, screaming, and begging, ending in a silent night in my room, Gisa conveniently sleeping over at a friend's house.

How over time my pickpocket jobs have gotten more and more lawless. The time I ended up in the NYPD holding cells overnight. What happened just today on Wall Street.

How my sister sprained her wrist, the sibling who was like a shining light in the dark harbor of our apartment. Who knows how long it'll take for her to recover fully.

And how I dropped out of school last spring because of my rage, my hate. If I couldn't dance, then I wouldn't do anything at all. As if I thought I could spite the world by doing so, even if it just made me spiral further.

I finish my story, eyes surprisingly clear, Cal's presence enough to sharpen my senses and keep the tears away.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks me full on. "You had a real passion, Mare Barrow." There's a glint in his eye that I don't quite understand, that I'm not meant to understand. Maybe it's just from the nearby lamplight. "I'm sorry."

I bristle at his sympathy as Cal offers me another hundred dollar bill for exposing myself so stupidly to him, but I allow him to shove it into the outside pocket of my bag.

"Don't feel bad for me, Cal," I say under the light, a block away from my brick-red apartment, where Will's store window still gleams. "There are worse lives to live."

At that, we part ways, never to see each other again in a city of eight and a half million.

* * *

Sitting on the cement rim of my apartment, six stories above the street, I gaze outward. My legs dangle over the edge, but my palms brace the rest of my body, careful.

Mom gave up in reprimanding me off this roof ages ago. And though I don't take pleasure in making her worry about me, after everything I've gotten myself into . . . sitting up here, as close to the stars as I'll ever get . . . there's something freeing about it. The wind blowing from the Harlem River—that eventually becomes the East River—plays with my hair, and though the scent isn't particularly great, I don't focus on the less glamorous parts of my neighborhood.

Not right now, at least.

 _Cal._

His face is already fading in my memory, being cataloged with everybody else who's come and gone.

Why did I tell him such things? He didn't offer up a bit of information on himself during the walk beyond his name, just listened. A collector of others' memories.

But like my memory of Cal, the feeling of dancing in the studio and on stage is slowly drifting away.

It wasn't a high-end ballet company where I learned everything I know, but a simple studio that taught all forms of dance. But regardless of how famed the studio—that was always changing its name, experimenting to discover a name that would at last attract new customers—was, I loved it. More than anything in the world.

Even when I was small and Mom and Dad weren't terribly concerned about the thirty a month they'd pay for my little-girl ballet class, I loved it.

Before my parents knew it, I started wanting to come back more, and promising to do extra chores, they let me enroll in the tumbling class. Then it was tap. At some point or another, I started jazz.

But when I was eleven, it was then I started pointe.

While I complained about my ugly feet relentlessly to Gisa, pointe was my favorite. The absolute joy I got from twirling on my toes was like nothing else, knowing how many years had gone into getting me there.

It was expensive. I drag a hand over my face, remembering the glittering costumes and high-end pointe shoes. By the time I turned thirteen, I was burning through pointe shoes, going to competitions every weekend, practically living at that studio just blocks away.

At fifteen, I started teaching a few classes a week to the little ones when my teacher—fully aware of my family's financial situation—offered me a job in exchange for a discount on tuition.

Still, between that and the pickpocketing, Mom still fished out her checkbook each month, still paying too much. At her shoulder, feeling so incredibly guilty, I'd promise myself to collect extra money. Somehow. When I wasn't busy with school or dance.

In a sad way, I think my parents were relieved when they finally told me it was over. It had been a Friday afternoon, and they had waited for me in the living room, waited for me to come home from school. And simply told me as it was: they couldn't afford it anymore and had already taken the liberty of speaking with my teachers at the studio.

More than likely, they had been looking for a way to break the news to me for months. In hindsight I saw the signs, clear as day: the silent looks across the table as I told my family how excited I was for my latest competition, the looks of pure dread Mom hid deep in her eyes as she pulled out her checkbook.

Am I so selfish? For not telling my parents it was okay sooner? For raging at them when I was told the truth I had known all along? Mom's been working as a hotel maid for years, and Dad . . . he has his limitations. It's a miracle they managed to keep me enrolled for long. I remind myself of that and the sacrifices they made.

They love me. They do.

From my place on the rooftop, I can see the rundown studio with ease. There were only two rooms inside of it, one big and one small, but they achieved the same purpose. The barres glued to the rooms' edges adorned peeling paint, and the floor in the small room always creaked. I never talked to the other girls who danced there. They didn't take it seriously the way I did—they weren't stupid enough to think that a professional ballerina could come from a place like they attended. Even if I won ribbons and trophies at every one of those competitions.

Though the street that touches its wooden doors is the best, safest way into the downtown, I avoid it at all costs. I haven't talked to any of them since. _Them_.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since this winter, not a year ago.

At all costs, I make sure I avoid it. Especially because of the headteacher and owner of that place. She was my mentor, taught me everything that I viewed as valuable, she was . . .

The mother I never had.

As though Mom can hear my thoughts, I look behind me to find nobody on the rooftop.

She never confirmed it, but I thought of myself as her favorite. When the other girls left our ballet technique classes, she always kept me after. To correct me on the way that I held my shoulders, so now I can hold them the way Cal held his; corrected me on the way I pointed my foot, shifted my weight. She herself began giving me private lessons—free of charge and at her own expense—beginning when I was fourteen.

I don't think about her very often.

Sighing, I stand up on the roof so I can feel a little taller.

The eternal lights of the city sparkle in all their glory, and skyscrapers stick out of the earth like swords coming out of their sheaths. As a little girl, still wearing my bubblegum-colored hair ties, she'd ask me: _Why does the sun bother to set if they leave all those lights on?_


	6. Chapter 6

Early the next morning, I'm out of the apartment door, hopping down the stairwell. Trying my hardest to focus on the ugly floral patterned carpet as I descend to the first floor, blocking out my sister's teary eyelashes and Mom, who didn't bother to hide her moans that ran far into the night.

However cowardly, it was a good decision to drop off Gisa at home yesterday and miss the first waves of my family's panic. Though I'm not particularly thankful for meeting Cal, either; his hand around my wrist haunted my dreams.

Mom said it was bad, confirming my suspicions.

 _Coward_. I should've been there, at my knees and prepared to plead for forgiveness.

My face is greeted with already muggy and sweltering air, despite the sun having barely risen.

My profession isn't lawful, but for the years I've been at pickpocketing, there isn't a block of Manhattan I haven't seen. With the city ever-changing, I doubt I'll ever grow tired of it.

But if I do, there happen to be another four boroughs to explore.

Down the street from the apartment, two men bicker outside of Will's rival grocery store, and I turn my head down, pretending not to notice as I make for Midtown. Today's a walking day.

I slap my weathered and shoelace-fraying Converse against the pavement, heading towards the safer and more expensive parts of town, away from my family and away from that bar Cal was loitering outside of. There's nothing worth stealing in East Harlem, as I've said before.

Even with my yellow T-shirt and my thinnest pair of blue jeans, forgoing the red sweatshirt, I've decided each day for the past week and a half that I'm over July. Its damp heat that boils the dumpsters in alleyways, the way that the air shimmers as though everything's just an illusion, everything. I'm over it. Hair clinging to my neck, I tie the brown into a tail that reaches halfway down my back and continue my walk, unsure of the areas I'll hit today.

After my long night yesterday, I went into Will's shop and dumped out the contents of my purse. Every last one of the credit cards was frozen, the watches weren't as nice as I had initially thought, and the diamond bracelet was a knockoff. Will told me that although I might have clever hands, my eyes needed quite a bit of work.

I snarled at him, still pissed about Farley, stormed up to the apartment, and counted through the money at the dinner table. The rest of my family was blessedly asleep.

From all the wallets . . . a thousand dollars. Nothing to Farley, but a lot to my family. I'll give it to them in bits and pieces so they don't get too suspicious about where I've been.

If I return to Midtown, Times Square will just be full of sweaty bodies, and though I could make another thousand on Wall Street, that place is dangerous, and I'm not willing to test my luck again. Though I would've returned last night—however foolishly—if there had been any chance of amassing enough money to make Farley an offer. Yet Wall Street was a ghost town for the rest of the day, so I heard.

Diana Farley. The whisper of her name hits me, a brick in the head. I need to know more about her, about them, but not knowing where to start, I kick at the pebble at my feet.

And continue the long walk downtown.

* * *

I mean to go upstairs and check on Kilorn.

But I find myself staring at Will's shop window, at a poster I've never seen before.

It's anything but brightly colored. Black and white, a photograph of a dancer standing _en pointe_. Her shoulders are back, her head tilted down toward the shadowed floor, hands neatly crossed behind her back, and she wears a white dress that reaches for her shins. The dancer is light in the darkness of the vignette photograph.

At the bottom there's text. An advertisement for the Manhattan Dance Academy, the bigshot owners of it with the name I can never remember.

I stare at the pointe shoes on the glossy paper, perfectly arched by the dancer's feet who use them. A cruel joke publishing the new season of auditions in this part of town, it has to be.

Nobody from around here, even if they had the talent, could afford to dance at the Academy. It used to be a dream of mine to try out for its summer intensives, but I soon learned that the scholarships to the school are rarely given. I never had a chance.

I've heard stories about the studios at the Academy, entire walls made of glass.

While its main bravado is ballet—the professional dancers hold performances at the grand opera houses and theatres of Manhattan throughout the year—its world-class teachers also train in the other dancing styles I was familiar with.

It's not as though it matters.

The bell to the grocery store chimes, and Will Whistle exits. "Begone, loiterer!" he chides jokingly, coming to lean against the glass. Vaguely, I wonder how long I've been watching the poster, willing it to go away. "What? You want to work there?"

I shake my head, still in admiration for the ballerina's arch in her foot. "I'm not good enough or rich enough to study dance at the Manhattan Dance Academy, Will."

He laughs, slapping the paper with a wrinkled hand.

I turn to him with crossed arms, hardly appreciative. " _What_?" I snap.

"That's the point, Miss Barrow! Did you even bother to read the words? It's not an advertisement for auditioning; it's for a job cleaning their facilities. Maybe you should go back to school, girly."

I blink as if to clear my vision. Will's not wrong.

It's an ad for a lowly cleaner's job, spruced up with a pretty ballet dancer.

"Oh," I murmur, and in anger of myself, I rip the poster off Will's glass.

Will says something about damaging his property, but my self-loathing drowns him out a thousand times over. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ for ever thinking that they'd put up a sign for dancers in this neighborhood. They probably don't even hold open auditions, and certainly wouldn't take dancers from dingy places like East Harlem.

Cleaners, now that makes sense. People in these parts will work for any amount of money—no matter how depressing the work is.

Stupid. I've been calling myself that a lot lately.

I'm suddenly inside, and the steps creak beneath me as my shoes pound against them, no longer interested in checking in on Kilorn.

Gisa and Mom are out of the apartment looking for medical supplies, undoubtedly, and Tramy and Bree are stuffed away in their bedroom.

The poster is slippery beneath my warm hands. And I don't know why I bother to hang onto at all, but soon enough I'm stuffing it under my bed with the rest of my forgotten dreams.

But I tear the plastic bin from under my bed. Hundreds of dollars worth of shoes, all half-used, just sitting in here. Accomplishing nothing.

That incessant voice in my head whispers at me to throw them all away, to at last move on. At last.

Instead, I pull my pointe shoes on and scale the fire escape.

Up and up I go, the street becoming just a little smaller as I run up the flights of stairs.

I hit the cement on top of the roof.

And I dance.

I dance until the sun dips below the horizon, and shadows bleed into the city. I dance until tears stream down my face, and I remember how it felt to live.

And I'm going to take that job if only to spite the world.


	7. Chapter 7

Like all dynasties, the Manhattan Dance Academy shimmers artfully in the summer sun.

Grumbling my complaints to nobody in particular, I clench the poster in my left hand and shield my eyes with my right.

Years and years ago, the descendants of whoever owns this dance empire—family business, I've heard—decided to base operations out of a building nestled into Times Square at the corner of Forty-Second and Broadway. Not in the heart of Times Square, but close enough for there to be a steady stream of people and cars and those wonderful electronic billboards. I've passed by this place plenty of times before, but never paid it attention, deeming it just as marvelous as the rest of the block. But now—now it takes my breath away, knowing what it is and who the people are inside of it.

 _Dancers._

Eleven stories tall and more than wide enough, the building must be ancient compared to the skyscraping glass and steel monuments overhead. But along with the hints of its age, modernness has taken over a good part of it, making it . . . classically advanced. The long panes of glass creating beautiful windows have a golden tint to them, like Cal's eyes, and there's nothing on the other side of them, just the reflection of the city street and cars and the revolving doors across the street, where I stand. Or so it appears. One-way mirrors for the dancers' privacy, I suppose.

It doesn't follow the code of the shimmering blue skyscrapers that litter the city. It's composed of warm colors, rather than icy gray and blue, but manages to loom nonetheless. Where the stretching panes of glass aren't, rows and columns of red brick and steel stand out to create a tidy and elegant grid.

The stories about entire glass walls are nearly true. The last two stories at the top are older, not adorning that same polish the others have. They have more brick to them, coupled with cement that alternates between red and beige. Balconies too narrow for actual use are sewn into every other window,—an eighth of the size of the ones below.

On the ground level, a single revolving door sits under a black marquee, and embedded into its front are the words, _Manhattan Dance Academy_ , red and silver in a large and ornate font.

Seeing the traffic light turn red at the intersection, I make a move to cross. _Now or never_ , I told myself with an exhausted and near-shattered body last night. After dancing for hours atop the roof.

The dancing helped, whether or not my body says so. Made me forget about Kilorn and the Street Fighters, Cal and my sister.

At a closer look, the windows are trimmed with ebony frames, and hooked lanterns protrude from the thin brick margins.

Exquisite.

The street beneath my feet is hot in the midday sun, but what's new. I opt out of taking the sidewalk, instead cutting across Forty-Second and edging past waiting cars. I don't bother winking at the drivers as I so often do.

Not when the security guard under the marquee takes note of me before I finish my crossing, his dark eyes watching and in wait. Though I wouldn't consider myself terribly threatening, I'm flattered that he takes me seriously as I approach him, the poster steadfast in my hand.

I keep my eyes trained on him the entire time, his mouth twitching when I come within five feet. Not overly large or threatening himself, wearing his simple security uniform. A relatively plain man, aside from his near-black eyes.

"This poster," I say finally, unraveling the darn paper, "was taped to my local grocery store window. I'd like to be interviewed for the job."

He looks me up and down, from the light makeup I bothered with to the rundown sneakers I've worn every day this summer. "Great. Just go inside and they'll set you up."

He's kidding. I didn't expect to get far enough to talk to _anyone_ who works here. If he hadn't been standing outside . . . despite my talk, would have I gone in?

I quirk my brow at him. "That easy, huh?"

He gives me an incredulous look. Not arrogant, but realistic. "Believe it or not, but people aren't lining up to get a cleaning job for minimum wage," he says with a touch of sarcasm I appreciate. I might turn out not to hate this man, who isn't older than thirty—but is entirely bald.

It's not about the money, though I definitely need it. This place, even if it's as the lowest on the pyramid, is the closest to dancing as I'll ever get again.

"Thanks," I mutter, casting an equally derisive smile onto him.

I step towards the gilded revolving doors that graze a fine marble floor, but the man stops me from entering by putting a hand around my wrist. Somebody else did that to me recently.

"Workers go in through the side," he tells me, nodding down the street.

"Oh," I say, not in the mood to fight him. Fine. Their territory, their rules. I'm just along for the ride.

"Yeah," is what he responds with.

I turn around to face the intersection, rolling my eyes. Some New Yorkers.

But did that just happen? Truly?

Though the Manhattan Dance Company is barren of the electronic screens and billboards that plague the rest of the intersection, it fits in just fine with its grandeur. Sparkles just like the rest of Times Square.

A block or two one way or another, and the crowds would be really bad, but here, I find my way to the intersection easily enough.

The glass and steel high rises advertise makeup and the latest movies, but none of it interests me, at least not in the way the Academy does. Had I grown up with any money, I might be fascinated by the boards, might find myself comparable to the people looking at them with such interest, but yet they're all the same to me. So colorful my eyes would bleed should I stare too long.

I turn the corner and pass green-gated stairs to a subway station, the yellow of taxis and rainbow of cars meandering past.

Something beautiful and grayscale ripples at the edge of my vision. This place has never deigned to post advertisements on its walls, though every other building seems to have them.

Yet that doesn't mean they don't find other decorations for the walls.

But not decorations. Masterpieces.

Stretching double my height, photographs like the one on my crumpled poster have been printed onto massive sheets of canvas. Their backgrounds are shades of black and grey, the dancers on them beautiful creatures, sporting lavish costumes in the midst of flawless leaps and turns. Some costumes are traditional, the kinds of outfits that the ballerinas and dancers use in the ballets, but others are modern, women clad in tight jeans and heaping dresses that could never actually be danced in. Pointe shoes, tap shoes, no shoes . . . every walk of dance you could imagine.

A shadowed male wearing jeans is portrayed on the last canvas, with no shirt or shoes. His face is turned from the camera, alluding to a mystery that I'll never solve. A muscled back and arms with the same power splayed out to the sides, his left leg is stuck outward in an effortless _a la seconde_.

I used to be that good. Maybe I still am. I didn't fall out of a single turn yesterday on the roof, though my body feels like I fell a dozen times.

Assuming they wouldn't be stupid enough to keep their side door unlocked, I rap my knuckles on it three definite times.

And of course, even the side doors are glamorous. The french doors have gilded framework encompassing them, a couple of golden bars striking through the middle of the opaque glass.

Because of the constant noise echoing throughout the intersection and adjoining streets, I don't know if anyone even hears me. Thirty seconds go by, and prepared to knock again and then try opening the door myself, I take a step backward as somebody approaches, the handle turning.

The woman who greets me isn't incredibly young, but by no means is she an old prune. Her uniform tells me she isn't one of the wealthy. She must be another cleaner, or secretary, or something.

Her hair is washed out, maybe from dying it too many times as a teen, but her eyes are bright, and she smiles as she beckons me inside.

"Ah, yes. They told me to be on the lookout for a wannabe cleaner. Nice of Security to send you to the side, eh?" She turns her head to look at me as I step inside, closing the heavy door behind me.

"Mare Barrow," I say, extending my hand.

But the woman doesn't take it. "Are you even out of high school?"

"Thankfully," I say, prepared for the question. Even with the makeup, there's no mistaking me for anything more than a teenage girl. "I graduated last spring."

She seems happy enough with my answer, taking my hand. "You can call me Ann. Miss Walsh if you're up to it."

Past the doors reaches a long and wide hallway made of the same stone I glimpsed at through the front.

But Ann cuts me off from any exploring I might've gotten to do when she stops in front of an elevator. Given how it's tucked back into this side hallway, I bet it's a worker's shaft. She presses the down arrow at its side. "The basement," I say. "Really?"

She says, "What? Did you think this job, clocking in at a stunning ten dollars and forty cents per hour, was going to involve something else?"

No. It's just . . . "No. I was just hoping to have a second glance before you guys threw me in the basement."

Ann only laughs in response.

The bell to the elevator rings and the steel doors glide ajar. The inside is bland and tasteless, and somehow I bet the regular elevators in the lobby are far more appealing.

Ann taps a button before turning to me. "You sure you want this job? You seem uncertain. Otherwise, buckle up and listen."

I have to swallow my pride and knot the stream of words I want to say to her, but it's hardly her fault. She's just another maid, just another cog in the machine. I get into the elevator after her.

"I honestly don't know why we need another one," she begins, looking me up and down. "I thought we had enough workers, but apparently one of the big guys said we should hire another one or two. So now you're here. I'll show you the ropes, but if you can handle a mop, then you're all set. I'll have you fill out the paperwork in a few days." The elevator comes to a halt, and the doors open. "If you thought this place looked big on the outside, think again. It's bigger than big. Though now we're technically overstaffed, you'll still be expected to work fast but thoroughly, and cover lots of space."

With a ding, the doors glide open again.

The elevator leads to one room, and one room alone. A large, wooden supply room, compiled of shelves lining two walls. Nope. Not the ritzy, high-end start I was looking for. The shelves contain all sorts of cleaning products: industrial containers of soap; buckets of sponges; rags for dusting; and too many chemicals I'm not familiar with. Vacuums and brooms and mops are balanced on the third wall, and a floor polisher is tucked into the corner. In the room's center, carts like the ones maids use at hotels lie in wait to be brought up to the main floors.

"The cellar is the one part they didn't renovate about twenty years ago, so they decided to stick an elevator into it and call it the Maids' Quarters. Soon enough, the creaky floorboards are gonna drive you insane.

"The top two levels are residential," she continues, grabbing one of the carts and wheeling it into the elevator. "Though the Academy isn't one of those places that schools and houses students, they like to have us keep up the rooms. The dancers use them when they want, and a couple stay here all the time." She squeezes past the cart to fetch something left on the far shelf.

"Almost forgot. Here's your uniform." She hands me a scarlet shirt, kept together with three large black buttons, short-sleeved. The collar is black, and so are the folds of the sleeves, which will reach halfway to my elbow.

"Bright red?" I question but undo the buttons and pull it over my shirt for the hex of it.

"Dunno," she shrugs. Ann's outfit makes more sense. Black pants and the same sort of shirt I have, but in a light brown color. "They're all different colors, though not as . . . loud as that one. If I had others left, I'd offer."

I try to let it flow off me, like water off a duck's back. Besides, there'll be worse situations I deal with at this place, if I don't decide to quit after day one.

"I expect you have a pair of black pants?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Just checking," she says, returning the elevator. "Come on."

I follow her into the small box, having to suck my stomach in between the doors and the cart like Ann did. "So how did you wind up here?"

"Same as you. I needed work, and I figured why not work at some rich-as-shit ballet company? We get free tickets to their performances, too."

The electronic number at the elevator's top flicks from _B_ to _1_ , but it doesn't stop there. It doesn't stop until we arrive on floor ten, the lift at last coming to a stop. "They don't like us being on the main floors during the morning or afternoon. Either come in early to get your assigned studios done, or wait until late at night."

No fixed hours? Well. That's just sketchy.

I almost cough up my own spit. Classes go on for hours on end at professional companies like this one. I won't be able to bet on cleaning until midnight.

Dawn it is then.

"I'll take the subway," I say, walking by her side as she pushes the cart. Though I've done it plenty of times against rational thought, I don't like the idea of walking the four miles to work every day in the dark."I'll come in early. What time do you come in?"

"Four-thirty. I get my work done in the morning, too. In fact: my shift would be about done if I wasn't training the newbie cleaning girl." She winks at me.

This floor is no different than that of a nice hotel, and I suppose that makes me no different than Mom, who's been working as a maid for years.

I won't let it last that long. Just for a little while, to get a glimpse at the life I could've had and to make some cash.

Gulping, I trail Ann as she pushes her maid's cart into the first room.

* * *

I stay working later at the Academy than I intend to.

And I think, if it were any other place in the world, I would leave sooner, wouldn't bother to admire the lovely pointe and tap shoes strewn about each room I come to clean.

Either way, it takes hours before I finish my assigned floor, having finished the second half by myself after Ann decided that I could handle a vacuum and left. Each room is more of a small apartment than a hotel room, equipped with a kitchenette, a dining table, and a sitting room.

The carpet beneath my feet looks the same as the carpet lining the stairs of my apartment, albeit newer and clean. It has those same ugly patterns on it, though, the colors mixing so loudly it's just a little painful to look at.

It's funny, really, to be able to put a place as immaculate as this into comparison with a detail of my apartment, its opposite in every spectrum.

Even the most perfect of dynasties have cracks, then. In this case, it's in the carpeting.

I silently smile to myself, pulling the worker's cart with me back towards the elevator shaft, still watching that carpet.

"You're truly certain you'll get the part?"

My body locks up, my head snapping to the opposite side of the hallway, where I just came from.

"Of course I am, Mother. I've spent every moment of this summer locked inside with those private dance instructors from Europe you and Father insist on hiring. Not that I'm complaining. The heat has been _grueling_.

"But even if some pretty fool decides to challenge my position, I'm sure Father will find some method of persuasion to ensure my standing. Won't you?"

Receiving a strong, strong warning that I shouldn't be hearing whatever the girl and her mother speak about, I grab the feather duster off my cart and dart into a nearby room. But I keep the door a sliver of the way open, held in place by its latch.

The woman makes a clicking noise with her tongue. I don't dare a glance out into the hallway, especially because they must be near now, but she sounds to be in her early forties, while the girl couldn't be older than twenty.

"Money may buy many things in this world, but it cannot buy talent. If you do not win that spot as his partner for the season, your father and I won't be pulling any strings for you. Get the part, Evangeline. And pay careful attention when I tell you that your father will be _very_ displeased with you should you not meet expectations."

"Yes, Mother," Evangeline says, with less of the self-assuredness that she held before.

"Good." I flinch as I hear her voice through the wood, mere feet from me, but there's no push on the door, no ordering whatever cleaner is in here to get out.

Evangeline. _Him_. Who are they? Evangeline is obviously the girl in the hallway, who's vying for a part with _him_. She must be a dancer here, and a good one, too, if her mother's wishes were any indication. _Him_ . . . he must be a good dancer as well. One of the best, perhaps, maybe one of the men depicted in their muscular forms on the artwork outside the building.

There's no use in thinking about it, I know, even as I push open the door minutes later to an empty hallway and hurry back to the service elevator with my cart.

No use in thinking about it at all.


	8. Chapter 8

"How's the wrist?"

Gisa pretends to sleep, but I catch her looking at me through a curtain of hair as I shove my bag under my bed. My bag, which contains little else than an ugly red uniform and now a pair of black pants.

"Still gross and stiff," she huffs a moment later out and sits up. "How were the streets?"

A rare question. My family never inquires after my days, not interested in the specifics of how I put money on the table each night.

An ironic question as well. I didn't steal a dollar today.

Rather, I worked my ass off on the residential floors of the Manhattan Dance Academy for nearly a full shift, leaving only because I'd miss dinner otherwise. And it turns out Ann was right: anybody can handle a vacuum and a feather duster. Though changing the sheets wasn't much fun, when I just about had to climb over the bed to get them on. Not to mention the ten bathrooms—and their ten toilets—I had to clean, each more glamorous than the last.

Minimum wage and truly nothing glamorous. That's what I signed up for. And even though the idea of watching those dancers . . . well, _dance_. . . sets my stomach churning, some part of me refuses to turn away from it. Some childish, longing part of me.

I left around five with a note to Ann in the Maid's Quarters, taking the subway on my way back. Having never been home late, I hardly intended to lose my streak today. So I practically sprinted home, only to have Mom tell me supper's running late by a few minutes.

I don't even think about telling Gee, let alone my parents. Not yet.

I plop down on my bed, folding my legs together. Our beds, furniture, and wooden floor are all shrouded in shadow, though the sun won't set for a while. Gisa has the shades drawn for the evening nap she was attempting to take, now that she's out of her apprenticeship for the foreseeable future.

"The same," I lie. Everybody's calmed down since the attacks on Wall Street, judging by the once-again-prosperous streams of people I walked through in Midtown. Though the media's still reeling, from what I've heard. I bring none of it up to Gee. "I'm probably the first person in history to call Times Square boring, but I swear it is."

A laugh, brief and forced, comes from my sister. "Not nearly as exciting as Wall Street, I suppose."

Not blame. Not blaming. She's just trying to make light of the situation. I remind myself of that yet again as I look down at my feet. But if seeing her curled up on her bed didn't shake my thoughts from the Academy, _that_ did.

"I—"

"I went down to Kilorn's today," Gisa blurts, probably seeing my pursed lips, and I raise my brows. Even in the semi-dark, her eyes are clear, glazed over toward the window behind me.

All those damned thoughts of the Street Fighters, Gee, and dancing crumble away too as I remember the livid face of Kilorn Warren, my best friend. His most recent words to me: _If I can't pay bills, I'll learn to fight_.

My breath catches as my palms sink into my bed. Since his fit on Wednesday, I haven't checked up, in spite of my promises to myself. I've had little time to think about him at all, since everything. My friend of ten years, and . . . I forgot to _check_ up.

I chased him down the stairs, and that suicidal bastard stormed out on me.

I gave him space, but I meant to _check_ in on him yesterday, having figured a day to himself could do him good. Instead, I continued on my usual escapades and came home to dance like a fool on the roof.

A pit in my stomach yawns open, and I begin to feel really, really sick.

"And?" The word comes out of me weak.

I swear that Gisa's perfect posture stiffens in the shadows.

"He wasn't there."

Something between a displeased sigh and an angry growl leaves my throat, and I sprawl out onto my bed in exhaustion.

So he's left. Off on his endeavor to find the Street Fighters and to become one of them. I can imagine him right now, walking along dusty, hot sidewalks all by himself. I wonder if he's using his little savings for hotel rooms or if he's slumming it on the streets. Knowing Kilorn, he'd take his chances, arguing it's warm enough in the alleys and gullies of New York.

Gisa and I sit there for a moment, staring at one another, but not understanding. We've never been like that, able to communicate with just our eyes like Shade and I could.

So I say, "Was the door open?"

She nods. "Yeah. Surprised I didn't find some squatter in there, actually. A lot of his clothes were gone when I looked, packed up with his toothbrush and all. No note, either."

Bold of Gee to go and check on Kilorn by herself. She's never admitted it, but my little sister has a crush on my best friend, though he's four years older than her. Gisa's hardly timid, but every time I've seen her around Kilorn, without fail, she's a blushing, stumbling mess. I don't see it, but maybe that's just because I've known him since he was a kid-idiot. Nonetheless, not knowing must've put some courage in her. Enough to knock on his door, find it open, and find no sign of Kilorn inside.

Would've I remembered to check on him later tonight or tomorrow morning, if not for my sister?

 _Shit_. Too late. Three days, and he's gone. I wonder if he's found Farley and her horde yet. Guilt curdles in my stomach.

"All for nothing, then," I whisper, giving her wrist a pointed look. "Sorry, Gee."

It was a stupid plan to begin with. The Scarlet Street Fighters clearly have ten times the resources I thought they did; appealing to Farley would've been a waste of time, no matter how much I could've made on Wall Street.

She shakes her head this time. "Not your fault I was being stupid."

"Yeah, but . . . do you know what Mom would do if she found out I let you walk by yourself in Midtown five days a week? She'd _slaughter_ me."

"You were with me when it happened," she argues lightly.

"You know that's not the point," I say gently. As if to soften the blow towards myself.

Whether she was halfway across the city or right before my eyes, I wasn't there to protect her that way Mom's asked me to since day one. I force myself to look away from her hand and to her eyes, still finding no words in them.

"It's just a sprain, Mare. Even if it's that bad, I'll be able to sew again in the fall."

 _But at what cost_? I almost say the words aloud. Gisa needs all the experience and apprenticeships she can get before she starts applying to fashion schools—and their scholarships. She might be fourteen and unimaginably talented, but . . . I can't bear the thought of Gee's dreams coming to an end because of one _stupid_ mistake. My mistake.

A few months will stunt her progress, maybe make her mistress forget all about her.

"And it's not _that_ bad, Mare."

I glare at her, and Gisa's mouth tightens. "Really. I haven't seen you move your hand one inch. Mom said it was bad, too."

Gee huffs, "Well. Mom's overdramatic. You know that."

I give her a knowing smile, however bitter. "I know. But not this time. She wasn't exaggerating this time."

Another huff. "Well, it's hardly any good to torture ourselves over now. What's done is done."

Hardly knowing how to respond, I shift my head away from Gisa to the shuttered window, where muted beams of sunset shine through. Not so far from here, I met Cal, eyes not so different than the dying sun. Somewhere on those golden streets Kilorn wanders, in search of his great life's purpose. Shade, too, though I could hardly be certain if he's in Manhattan at all.

"Dinner should be about ready," I say, recalling Mom's words.

A beat of quiet. "Yeah. Let's go."

To another silent and burdened dinner, same as always.


	9. Chapter 9

If anything, the air conditioning is what keeps me from quitting.

The work is redundant, full of dusting and vacuuming, but the rooms I clean are cool. Between yesterday and today, the blasting air from the AC has become the sound I most often hear, when all the dancers and teachers are on the lower floors. After the day and a half I've worked, I haven't had any more run-ins with anybody of importance. Though Evangeline and her mother can hardly be considered that when I wouldn't be able to identify them in a crowd. Only by their voices.

This morning, unmotivated to leave the house before the crack of dawn, I decided that I would do my studio cleaning late at night, after all of the classes end. I hadn't yet decided what excuse I'd be telling my family to explain why I couldn't get home until midnight.

But when I got here, Ann told me that the dancers have Sundays off, and I can clean the studios whenever I'd like to. Though according to her, today's a special day: hundreds of Academy hopefuls will be downstairs in the theatre for auditions.

What sort of auditions, what for, I don't know. How I'd like to watch them, though. Classical pointe, tap, hip-hop, maybe even contemporary, just to laugh at it.

Even if I regret watching afterward.

But if I sneak away for just a moment, go find a secret place to watch the performances from . . . I'd get caught, no matter how sly I am.

I walk down the hall of one of the residential floors, tugging my maid's cart along with me. Today I've taken a tour of the rest of the building with Ann and gone through my assigned rooms up here, and now, noon approaching, I make my way towards the elevator.

Ann wasn't kidding when she said this place was big. I believed her at the time, but I had no idea . . . a dance academy could—or should—be so humongous. It doesn't look as big as it actually is from the outside. Eleven stories tall, not narrow in either direction, but this place . . . this place. Ann gave me a map, and I'm still unsure if she meant it as a joke or not. But the fact that they have maps at their disposal at all should indicate something.

It's a sort of labyrinthine structure, staircases and elevators at every turn. While the carpet isn't the prettiest up here, the most gorgeous of marble decorates the lower floors, a warm, orange color. In the studios, doors always cracked open to allow the cold air in, there's either wood or vinyl, surrounded by mirrors and glass. It was perhaps what struck at me, bothered me a bit this morning when Ann guided me through the wide and sprawling hallways of the Manhattan Dance Academy. The echoes of music, pounds of various shoes against the floor. Although dancers don't have classes on Sunday, apparently plenty came to practice for their auditions.

Ann told me if they weren't already downstairs to watch, I could kick them out to get my cleaning done since they don't actually have classes today. My jaw almost popped open at the thought.

A countless number of studios we walked past, a number that I quickly lost track of. Every time I thought we'd finished exploring a floor, another corner would come, another track of quiet music playing from an ajar door. Only that familiar sound of a teacher shouting was missing. I don't imagine the shouting and lecturing would be so different from the things I heard during my days in dance. Even as professionals, they continue to get criticized. _No such thing as perfect_.

I slap the button alongside the elevator, leaning against its wall to feel the air flow in my direction.

Then I come back around, looking at my reflection in the murky elevator doors. A hideous red shirt for a maid, basic black slacks, black shoes to blend in. Not so different from Mom. I've promised myself I wouldn't work here for more than a few months to help my family out, to get a _glimpse_ , but after that, I'm done. A glimpse is a glimpse, and any more would be bad for me.

I won't become like Mom. I won't disrespect her hard work for our family like that. She works for us, so we have a chance. Even though I've already wasted it— _high school dropout_ —I won't end up as a cleaner. Just because I know she'd never want this life for me.

The doors to the elevator open with a chime, and I pull the cart in with me. The dancers should be downstairs now, which leaves an opening for me to get my work done.

Ann, who is as much of a boss as I have at the moment, provided me with a list of my assignments and circled the locations on the map. Half of the tenth-floor residences, a few hallways downstairs that need mopping, and three studios. It seems excessive to clean the studios every day, but the owners want their property in tip-top condition.

Though they're rather nonchalant when it comes to hiring. One would think, a rich-as-shit ballet company, as Ann put it, would require background checks and fixed hours.

But again, I guess not.

The elevator makes a noise each time I descend a level, and I keep a hand on the rail as though I'm going to fall.

At last, the lift stops, the doors sliding open.

A new hallway stretches to my left and right, made of that attractive marble.

Aside from the stone and the creamy walls enclosing the space, little else is to be seen. Intermittently, there'll be a stretch where paintings of Manhattan and dancers cover the walls, or of more of those photographs like the ones on the outside of the building, but for the most part, the halls are elegantly barren.

It has enough to it, with the coffered cream ceiling, the smooth, warm-hued floor, and the constant doors, a new one on the wall every time I turn my head.

Mopping the floor isn't something I care to do at the moment, though nobody should be coming up here for a while. Either way, the last thing I need is to have an arrogant, pissed-off dancer coming up here and scoffing when he or she sees there's an enormous puddle in the way.

So instead I glance at my map quickly, making my way for the first studio Ann marked off.

It's not far down the hall, and in no time, I'm pushing my cart through its door.

And I can't help my gasping breath.

A window runs along an entire wall. The sun high above the horizon, it provides enough natural lighting in the room for the fluorescents to be of no use and casts the room in a crisp, bright shade. The floor in here looks like vinyl, mimicking wood with its dark brown color and gleaming in the sunlight.

On the side opposite the floor-to-ceiling window, a reflection of the entire room shines, courtesy of a mirror, not a mark or scratch on it. The adjacent two walls are empty, save for a set of barres at each of them.

The cleaning of the studios will be easy. Just dusting, maybe spraying the windows and mirrors when needed. An occasional mopping. But this room looks like it was just cleaned and has no use for me. It's the apartments and hallways that actually have a need for the maids, not these studios.

I leave the door open for the air and grab a rag off the cart, heading for the barres to wipe them off.

The floor is firm beneath my feet as I wipe down the first set, giving the barres nothing more than a hasty run-over. I cross the room to the second set, the sun an unfaltering presence in my periphery. The room's large, equipped to hold a class of fifty dancers, maybe seventy for a calm session without too many stuck-out limbs.

I reach the other side, my hand coming down on the top piece of wood, rag between barre and skin. My feet rise up, out of instinct, and I have to settle myself right away. My feet come down to finish my work.

Within five seconds, I finish. Great.

Looking back to the door with no one in sight, I gingerly place the rag on the lower barre, my hands gripping the upper.

Just once, because I'm not going to survive if I can't walk into one of these rooms without dancing every time.

In shoes not meant for such things, I rise up onto my toes, holding my core strong and shoulders back. So many rules. Head tilted up, a long neck, a back not arched . . . I could go on, but I hardly think about those minute details anymore, ingrained in my memory, even when I haven't had class in so long.

Next, I raise my arms, put them in front of me, above my head, then back down. Bring my foot to my knee, turned out so I'm in a motionless _pirouette._

God, if there are security cameras in here . . . I doubt I'll get fired, but certainly humiliated.

I come out of my imaginary turn, taking the little rag with me. Looking around the room, there's nothing else in dire need of the cloth or the other supplies in the cart. I should've asked Ann what exactly I'm meant to do in these rooms—other than dance—when there's nothing _to do_ , nothing to clean.

The glass will eventually grow dirty, and the floor will eventually need a scrub. But not today. With auditions all week, I'll hardly be spending any time down here.

Just to say I did something in this studio, I go back to the cart and lift the broom from its holder to sweep microscopic, fictitious dirt into the corner. I scoop it up with a dustpan. As I will tomorrow, and the next day.

A pathetic amount of dirt falls into the trash can attached to my cart when I ferry it over, returning the broom and dustpan to their places.

Turning towards it, I survey the room again and find nothing out of place, nothing to clean. I make a mental note to ask Ann protocol for studios when I next see her.

I walk to the center of the room and turn around myself. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Cool air filters though, and the sun keeps on shimmering. Everything about this place is glossy and bright and sublime. I wonder if I'll ever grow a little sick and envious of seeing it.

With my portion of the residential floors done, and just two more studios and a hallway to mop, I'll be out of here with an hour to spare.

A thought cements, repeating itself, in my brain. With plenty of time to spare . . .

 _Just once and never again._

I can't get attached again. Not to this, not to dancing. Even if I still come home every day, and without fail do I practice ballet.

But if only to see whether or not I can do them in these shoes . . .

And with the door closed enough and that one-way window . . .

Just for fun. I have the time, after all.

Without thinking about it, justifying it as an experiment, I prep my body, standing as tall as I did at the barre. I fall into instinct as I push from the ground, beginning a turn.

 _Fouettés_. A difficult turn in ballet that few master. Yet I loved them. I always did.

I keep my eyes focused on the barre at the far wall, whipping my head back and forth to spot. My leg comes in and out, shoes surprisingly smooth on the vinyl.

And I can't help but smile as I continue, remembering those rules: _Head tilted up, a long neck, a back not arched, and more._

A ridiculous number of rules, if you ask me, but they've made me strong, and somehow, I keep turning, though I haven't done them with this sort of force in a long time, separate from my afternoon on the roof two days ago.

I continue, my foot coming to my knee, then shooting out. Until I've done sixteen of them.

At last, I come out of the motion, shoes finally squeaking when I'm back on flat foot.

 _You're not a dancer. Not anymore. So stop acting like it._

It wasn't just for fun.

Those words, that truth, come back to me as the adrenaline fades away. As if it was never there.

Heaving a breath, I make for my cart, but not before a shadow flickers in the corner of my vision.

Faster than possible, I face the door, searching for a trace of the person I saw. Yes, yes, there was a person there just a moment ago, a man staring into the room.

Nothing. There isn't anybody at the threshold, and I run for it, holding out for the hope that I'll see a retreating figure in the hallway. My heart beats wildly, and not from the dancing.

I reach the door, barreling out of it and tossing my head both ways.

Nobody . . . no one and nothing.

Whoever he was, he must have seen me dancing. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been standing there. A lowly maid, doing those types of turns is not ordinary or natural. No wonder he ran away.

My cheeks flush and burn from chagrin. Yup. However low the chances of a dancer walking past this room in the seconds I turned was, it happened. Sounds about right.

That's what I get, for the stupid fascination of pretending to be a person that I no longer am.

"Mare."

Ann says my name, and I start, even as it's her voice that says it. Not some guy that I've never met, someone who wouldn't know my name.

I knit my brows at her.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she says. "Come on. I have something to show you."

* * *

She leads me down to the ground floor of the building, and we emerge from the maid's hallway into the lobby, plenty of people dispersed throughout the grand room. The ceiling is thirty feet aloft, and along the second and third story walls lies more glass, this type showing the classrooms through it.

Most of the girls wear leotards, tights, and some type of dance shoe or other. The men don basic T-shirts, with either form-fitting pants, like thick tights, or looser workout joggers. All of them look pristine and regal, the girls wearing pounds of makeup and hair scooped up into high buns, the men with carved faces and glistening, oiled hair.

"I thought you said they didn't like the maids being around them," I say, recalling what Ann mentioned earlier.

"They don't," she replies, eyes focused on our surroundings. Not everybody wears dance clothes: others wear jeans and skirts and heels, hair not at all swept back. Private instructors and teachers from the Academy, probably. A few smothering parents, here and there.

"But," Ann continues, "auditions come around once a year. You don't seem like the kind of person who has an interest in working here for the rest of your life, so I figure you should see it now."

On my left are the main doors, where the black-eyed bodyguard stopped me from entering. To my other side, a grand staircase reaches toward the second floor, red, gold, and black carpeting covering each set of stairs.

Ann goes ahead of me through the dancers, saying a polite "excuse me" whenever needed. They don't notice us, caught up in their own conversations with one another. Along the way, I hear chatter about how they think they did, who they think has the best shot at making it.

"What exactly," I begin, almost under my breath, "are these people auditioning for?"

There's a few hundred here alone, and I imagine there are more, in the auditorium or hidden away in other rooms. A group of women stretches in a corner, pointing and flexing their feet as they go along. A larger thronging of dancers does a tap warmup, and somebody else hollers at them to keep it down.

Though nobody is particularly loud. It's all hushed whispers and murmurs.

"You don't know _anything_ about this academy, do you? Auditions, every July. This will be in the paper tomorrow, Mare," Ann says, and I think she wants to stop in the middle of the room just to make a point. "These auditions decide who will be this season's principal dancers, soloists, and so on. This place's specialty is ballet, but the best tap and hip hop dancers in the world have come here, too. It's a big deal, alright? If you want to know more, ask anybody here." She nods to the rest of the room.

The Manhattan Dance Academy. I know enough about it: it's among the best schools in the United States, if not the whole world.

"Sorry," I grumble, feeling stupid for asking the question. "I was just hoping for specifics."

Rather than enter one of the pairs of propped-open double doors off from the staircases—there are three of them—Ann veers off to a side wall, yanks a smaller entrance open, and enters the space.

I'd complain again, Ann robbing me of the chance to peer into those doors to see what must be a massive auditorium if I thought it would get me in there.

On the other side of the single door stands a curved and near-black pathway, marble turning to wood in an instant.

 _We're going backstage_.

My heart flutters at the thought, worries about the man who saw me dancing suddenly a thing of the past. _We're going backstage_.

* * *

The recitals and competitions my teachers insisted I try were a favorite of mine. I loved every moment in that studio, but on stage . . . there was no fear, not after the relentless practicing I did at home and in class.

What the dancers are doing here, though, is not a performance or meager dance competition for teens. Life or death would be more accurate, the dancers would say if I asked them.

The narrow walkway goes on for a long while before it broadens up, transitioning from curved to straight, branching into different directions. Ahead, the main path takes a sharp right bend, heading for the other side of the stage. With a few more steps, the wall at my side breaks off, too-familiar sharp lights blaring in my eyes.

The corner of the stage. At the back of its wing, is where I stand.

In its spotlight is a girl, leaping in her pointe shoes. I see all of her movements from back here; we're separated by twenty feet and gigantic cement pillars, cleaving the set and the wings apart.

No music filters out of speakers, but she dances as though there is. I track her carefully, watching for critiques my instructors would've given her. Very flexible, but not as relaxed as she should be. Her shoulders are a little too high, and even from here, I can tell her jaw's clenched. Nervous. Petrified.

I pause my watching when a stagehand nearby notices Ann's arrival and shoots forward. I brace myself, thinking that he's going to kick us out.

A few others wait near the pillars, all of them girls in pointe shoes. They must divide the tryouts by gender and genre.

And no, they don't look at me, but the last thing I want is to get reprimanded in front of the dancers.

"Ann," the stagehand says, resting his hand on a radio at his belt. "One of the lights up there," he points upward, past the rigging to the wooden beams, "is shot, and my guys are on lunch break. Wanna come up there with me to hold the bulb while I replace it?"

My coworker sighs, putting her hands on her hips. She looks at me. "You wanna go up there, too?"

Heights . . . I've never been particularly good with them.

But if I don't go up there with her, I'll have to wait down _here_ , with my loud red uniform.

"Sure," I say, not really meaning it. I hide my fib with a dainty smile.

The man ducks further into the wing, reaches a long table scattered with an array of cables and tools, and takes a box the size of his hand, along with a screwdriver. "Come on," he says, motioning to a ladder bolted to a pillar at the stage's corner, half-concealed by one of the drawn red curtains.

He allows me and Ann to climb up first, and I find myself holding my breath. Sitting up on the ledge of my rooftop is one thing, but with a stage and audience beneath me . . .

 _Use your balance._

But. This. Is. Not. What. I. Signed. Up. For.

I haul myself over the last rung of the latter and onto a sturdy wooden plank. Crouched, I inch my way across until there's enough room for Ann to join me, who elects to stand rather than imitate the pathetic stance I use.

"Scared of heights?" she asks in a snicker. I growl at her, turning away from Ann and the stagehand when he makes his way up. They don't need my help with whatever light demands fixing. So I take that as an invitation to look around, knuckles white as I grip the wood harder beneath me.

The beams extend from one side of the stage to the other, gaps plenty large enough to fall through between them. Dividing the back of the stage from the front, in the middle of the framework is a stocky row of lights, leaving about ten feet on either edge of the stage to walk around. The lights are pointed in various directions, but all down toward the stage.

The stage is large, and my view of the audience is cut off by overhanging curtains. The last one having left, a new dancer appears from the wing's shadows. Before she begins her routine, I can already tell she's nervous, by the way she clenches her hands.

"State your name," a deep-voiced man says from the audience. I cannot see him.

"Heron Welle," the girl says. I'm amazed her voice doesn't shake.

With that, she finds her beginning position, and I attempt to forget how high above the floor I am.

Ann and the man work ahead of me, having moved to one of the center beams to change the light fixed beside it.

The ballerina prances and twirls about the stage, and I wonder how they judge each competitor when they all dance to different choreography. _And how many are there_?

Pretending to be a judge myself, I watch her meticulously, as I did with the one before. The way in which her moves come together and fall apart, if she minds where her arms are during her turns. She does. But just like the last girl, she's scared as hell.

Overall, her performance is good. She smiles, though she's visibly afraid. I can't say that I'd do any better than her, if I had to come down from the _safety_ of these rafters and into the public eye. Maybe six months ago, when I was at my peak.

In time, she leaves with a curtsy, and a new one appears again. A grueling conveyor belt.

Whatever kind of light bulb the duo across the planks is changing, it must be difficult, with their fighting mumbles as Ann holds various parts of the light for the stagehand. I consider going over to help them—but walking across the planks with _considerable_ gaps between them . . . I decide against it.

Three more girls try their luck, doing better than the first two I observed. Their dances aren't more than ninety seconds long, but they pack skills and art into those seconds.

All of the girls are incredibly strong, toned muscles pronounced even beneath their tights. Talented, with the grace they use in turns that go on and on, toes unwavering when protected from the stage by only a piece of wood and cloth.

They were born for this, then raised for it when their parents spent exorbitant sums of money paying for ballet tuition. And at better, more pricey schools than mine. As much as I want to deny it, I envy them for what they have and what they've been given.

 _This one should be good,_ I think when I see her, a tall girl dressed head to ankle in black, her pointe shoes painted a pretty, steely blue. Her hair is dyed silver-white, cornrows at her scalp going into a bun. Flawless, golden skin, confident posture, and a smirk for the ages.

I can't call arrogance a good tool, but in dance . . . it sort of is. The Academy is looking for those with bravado and negligence for stage fright.

She saunters onto the set, heading for its center.

"State your name," the same voice asks of her.

"Ev—"

Tap shoes that aren't trying to be quiet sound from backstage, approaching. Their hits against the wood remind me of my own taps, fancy, expensive things that I still keep under my bed. The steadiness the sounds have measure up to the girl's annoying smirk.

"Sorry I'm late," the owner of the tap shoes calls, emerging from the wings of the stage. "I got caught up in working on a new combination."

My heart stops.

At the inky black hair, the smile, the eyes. The voice. A voice I've heard before.

Outside of a dinky, dirty bar in East Harlem, the man cloaked in a black hoodie to hide his muscular build. A dancer's build.

Without thinking, I rise from my crouch, starting into a walk across the planks to get a better view. I keep my eyes down, not on where my feet are going, but on Cal, the son of the Manhattan Dance Academy.

Cal, short for Calore. His last name and the other name of this place. _Calore Dance Academy_.

I told him so many things he shouldn't have ever heard that night. How I was a dancer, despising the rich living in the high rises of Midtown. Because that's _exactly_ who he is.


	10. Chapter 10

I halt my walking along the planks, stopping not far from where Cal stands, twenty-five, maybe thirty feet below. The red-hot anger I feel for Cal, for myself, negates any fear of heights I possessed. I grip a nearby dangling rope for stability, one of the many arranged throughout the rafters as part of the rigging system.

The young man wears nice tap shoes, a black T-shirt, and Adidas training pants rolled at the ankle.

What was he doing, loitering outside of a disgusting East Harlem bar? He wasn't inside of it, preferring to stand at its edge, practically asking for trouble. No, he didn't score a brutal thug to pick a fight with, but rather a foolish, pickpocketing teenage girl. And instead of sending me to the cops, he gave me two-hundred dollars and somebody to rant to.

If luck is real, because it's surely against me, then fate might be as well. Whatever twisted, mutilated, comical fate this is.

Ann, up in the rafters with me, helping the stagehand with the light, revealed the cleaning staff was full, but one of the higher-ups suggested acquiring a new maid or two. I all but invited Cal into my apartment. He knows where I live, and after I bled my soul to him on our walk, he returned to East Harlem, sticking an advertising poster on Will's store window for a maid job at the Manhattan Dance Academy.

Better known as the Calore Dance Academy, dubbed after his billionaire family. I don't know why its name evaded my memory, but sure enough, below on the stage platform and further past the female and Cal, the name is inscribed on the stage, a near black on the dark wood. I was all-too entranced with the dancers to acknowledge it before, but now it's striking: the lettering's bold, almost looking like it was branded or burned onto the stage like a scar.

Albeit a gorgeous scar.

Details about the family I learned years ago come flooding back, and I feel _so_ , _so_ stupid for not putting the pieces together. Cal's a nickname, and his father is the proprietor of one of the most successful dance companies in history to date. Dancers from around the world come to train under his family's leadership, have been since the Roaring Twenties.

Everybody's heard of the Calores. I don't know how I forgot the name. I've known it for a decade, especially fascinated with it as a little kid when it was my dream to dance at a place like this. I suppose it's just another part of my old passion I've forgotten, all those extra details falling away with time. Though I've never forgotten how insanely rich these people are.

I resume my crouch, craning my head for the best angle between the beams' spaces.

"It's fine, Cal," the unseen man in the audience who asked the dancers their names says. "You haven't missed much, and your brother scored in your place."

Cal nods, faintly frowning at the silver-haired woman also on stage. "Best of luck, Evangeline," he says, but doesn't quite mean it, the wish monotone and bland. Not trying to hide his disinterest.

 _Evangeline_. The girl who spoke with her mother in the hall while I hid in a guest room. Her mom painted herself as a nightmare, but with Evangeline in the flesh, her infernal smirking . . . the girl takes after her.

"Thanks, partner," she returns, and my suspicions are confirmed. She and her mom spoke about Cal yesterday, and Evangeline seemed awful confident in her ability to attain _him_ as a partner. Until her mom broke the news—that her father wouldn't be bribing anyone for the honor.

"Not yet," Cal mumbles and walks towards the front of the stage. My view of him cuts off, and his shoes indicate a descent of steps.

Based on the scant interaction I've had with Cal, he isn't the cruel type. For my sanity, I'll assume he put that poster up on Will's storefront for good reason, not as some wicked joke. He would've understood what it would mean to me to see the Academy, salt to a wound that I doubt will ever fully heal. On the other hand, a job, any kind of job, would stop me from terrorizing innocents, give me an income to provide my family with. And it offered me the chance to see what could've been.

Though I don't know Cal, clearly not, I have no hesitation to believe those three ideas were what passed through his mind and caused him to advertise his own studio to me.

They were what went through mine just now.

To see what could have been, even if it hurts? Or never see dance again? To make some money for a family that's in desperate need of it? Or risk myself out on the streets for another year?

But a part, a part at large, despises him. Not for good reason, but for what he is, hundred-dollar bills at the ready in his wallet. Never known the feeling of a hungry stomach or the nervous high gotten from stealing for your family's monthly rent. Cal gave me this job, saved me from getting caught by men much worse than him, but I can't help but hate him for it.

"Evangeline Samos," the dancer below says, bringing me from the bar in East Harlem to the present. She doesn't delay for the man to ask for her name again. Dauntless. Without cue, Evangeline settles into her beginning position.

The hushed voices from the audience that started when Cal arrived lower, then cut off altogether.

I stiffen, sensing a hell of a performance coming. Even Ann and the stagehand pause their work.

Her slender arms stretch outward, and Evangeline rises up in her pointe shoes.

She begins her routine, starting slow and displaying the muscles in her body as she kicks upward and holds a split position, repeating the movement three times. Her face no longer faces me, so I imagine the vulpine smile on her lips.

She leaps and jumps and arcs her body, each action—down to the flourishes of her hands—outlined with power. The other girls, good as some of them are, don't have her perfect grace—Evangeline's the kind of dancer meant to dedicate her life to this art form. Both natural and honed, the way she turns with ease and knows how far to bend her arms and legs.

"Mare," Ann hisses, probably wanting my help with the light. I ignore her, opting to watch Evangeline dance instead.

I walk along the beam, hands crossed behind my back. I walk while she glides across the stage, time straining, her leaps going by so slowly I can see the perfect split formed in midair, her arms in a marvel of their own.

Impossible as it is, I hear music with her motions, dancer to dancer, because there's a track playing in her ears, guiding her steps, rising and lowering, jumping and plunging, forever landing on feet that are strong and callused. I've heard it with others, but not as beautiful; not as precise.

"Mare," Ann calls again, daring more volume this time, though not much. Without the music and the utter silence of the audience, Evangeline and her shoes are the only sound for miles.

Crossing a few beams, forgetting where I am up in the rafters, I trail Evangeline. She waltzes around herself, showing off a diversity of footwork—not of the grand gestures she was going through before, but just as relevant. Many of the previous girls failed in that way, favoring tricks and casting off skill.

I find myself shaking my head at the girl, dismayed at her prowess she continues to exploit. She has to have gone over the ninety seconds.

The girl does a few things that I've never come across before, never been taught. Maybe I'll learn them at home tonight, on the roof. I part my lips, imitating Evangeline's fabricated smile, pretending I'm her. When she runs to the center of the stage, so do I. I'm somewhat more delicate with my footing.

A finale, and she's already gone past her time. Nobody except me cares about the fact, though, the audience growing boisterous as she prepares for her turn in an exaggerated fashion. Her right leg extends to the side, then shifts behind her. Her arms spread wide.

"Finish it!" an onlooker hollers from the audience.

Whether the commentary is from a friend or foe, she takes it as an invitation, rolling her wrists.

"Mare," Ann growls in warning, the rest of the words implied but left unsaid. _Get your ass over here, or this might just be your last day._ With a look towards her at the end of the beam of lights, she doesn't pay attention to me as she says it, kneeling near the broken light with the stagehand.

But stubbornly mesmerized by Evangeline, executing turns identical to those I did in one of the studios, I walk towards her again, stepping across the row of lights bolted onto a continuous metal beam.

The lights shine brightly on Evangeline and her turns, the crack between two of the lights enabling me to continue watching. I watch and watch, desperately searching for a fault in her composition. Tearing up, I realize there are none, no matter how hard I analyze her.

So after I realize there's no beam on the other side of the lights, my gaze is still fixed on the dancer and her turns, balanced and magnificent.

At least until I open my mouth to scream bloody murder, my other foot snagging on a light as the stage spreads out before my eyes, each wooden plank vivid and merciless. Evangeline jolts, falling out of her revolution, stumbling and barely keeping herself upright. She flings herself out of the way.

I flail my arms, wildly, manically searching for the next beam that _has to_ come after the large space that _shouldn't be_ here, a blindspot with the raised lighting hiding it. If I could just grab on tight . . . cling to it until I lose my momentum, then pull myself upward. Even as I fall, time slowing, my face not past the rafters, not into the view of the audience, I ask myself how I didn't notice the gap I'm falling through. Too distracted, having lost my inhibitions to a dance routine. My arms reaching for that imaginary plank, I shriek louder.

Instead of a beam, I'm awarded a rope. My fingers graze it first, and out of some primal instinct, they reach out, wrap around the rope so hard it hurts. They'll rip open, but at least, at least—

 _Expecting_ to stop, to jerk to a rest, I am unpleasantly surprised when I continue to fall, past the beams, the floor an unforgiving sight, and I understand I'm not going to stop. My gut plummets with more hesitation than the rest of me, riding up in my throat, the air not filtering through my lungs quite right.

Is the rope broken? Is it too long and unraveling from somewhere?

I close my eyes, the rope my anchor to a fleeting life.

The consolation is Cal's guilt for my death, cracking my spine on his family's stage. It'll make for a good show, better than Evangeline's performance. The outrage, the horror, will be all over the news, and it will wreak havoc on the Academy's reputation. They'll try to hide it, but too many people are about to see, rich people who adore gossip and tabloids.

Or maybe nobody will give a crap, playing it off as the stupidity of a maid.

The audience makes noises I can only define as upset, hearing the shout and seeing a girl emerge from the stage rafters. A few go so far as to scream like me, as loud and terrified as me.

For me, I block my surroundings out, tucking my legs into my body as much as I can in the limited time—

The rope does indeed jerk to a rest, a second before it snaps in half, taking the bottom half—me with it—to the ground, however many feet away—

I land on my ass, back and head spared from the brunt of it, wood a mallet to my tailbone. I expect stars, my eyes still pinched shut, but I see orange and yellow in fuzzy specks behind my eyelids. Only the lights, shining right on me and putting me on a strange display.

No concussion, no death, which I should be glad for. I can keep on living my sad, impoverished life.

To think all of that—what just happened—happened in a matter of seconds. The crowd is stunned into pure silence, and for the second that none of them, not a single critic, says a word is the worst moment of my existence. My heart beats heavy, not understanding it's still pumping my blood. Which I didn't spill on the stage. Good.

My body goes numb, and I'm only glad for it because it stops me from shaking. The pain in my tailbone—a bruise, not a break—dulls away. I'm not sure why.

Forcing myself to crack an eye open, Ann is thirty feet above, peeking out from the space I fell through. Her gaping mouth is enough to make me want to vomit.

"Hey," Evangeline snaps, waving her hand in my line of sight. My gaze moves from Ann to her, towering and angry. The sharp planes of her face are made into something wicked as she glowers. Her eyes appear to be black. "Were you planning on auditioning? Or was that an _accident_?"

My stomach twists further as I hold her gaze and find nothing sympathetic in it. Yet it's better than acknowledging the other people in the room.

"She's fine," Evangeline says in a horrible tone when a stagehand attempts to come forward. She holds her other hand out to the few stagehands in the wings. Preventing them from coming to me, helping me. She's absolutely terrifying.

Oh, she's a bitch alright. Not sure how to react, I bark out a dark laugh. To my delight, I don't cough up blood in the process. "I tripped," I simply say. A dozen audience members have the gall to laugh at the explanation.

"I noticed," she purrs.

How I'd love to dissolve into the floor. I sit up, survey the auditorium to my left. It's not packed, but three-hundred fill in the red-velvet seats, out of the eight-hundred or-so spots. Enough for at least one of them to remember my face in a crowd.

It's a single-level theatre, but it travels far, cut up into three sections divided by grey carpeting. The ceiling is taller than needed. The doors I saw on the way in are at the back, dancers filtering in to investigate who the screaming was from. And the lights . . . they carry on in their scheming, disarming me of every pretense I've built up.

I'm going to quit. Right after I run off this stage.

"You can leave, now," Evangeline says, concluding I won't be speaking to her again.

"So can you," a voice from the front of the audience retorts. "We all know you can do the turns, so your audition is complete."

I whirl my neck towards the source. Cal stands up, bracing his palms on the chair back in front of him. He sits beside a raven-haired boy who looks like a younger brother and man who must be his father, the one and only owner of the Manhattan Dance Academy. A woman with ashy blonde hair sits to the owner's left, and two men and another woman sit to _her_ left. Seven of them in total, residing in the center section, five rows up and straight down the middle. Nobody sits ahead of them or behind them for a few rows, giving Cal, his family, and who I assume to be ballet masters distance for judging.

If I was numb before, seeing him turns me the opposite. I remember the pain in my tailbone, my stomach stops twisting in on itself and begins rolling, and I clench my fists to stop them from shaking.

Needing to get out of here, in dire need, I stand up. I wobble, from the fall or from the tension in my chest for whatever else Cal is about to say. I make to walk off to the wing of the set, towards the gathered stagehands awaiting me.

And I make it all of three paces before he says, "Wait."

Knowing full-well I don't have to listen to him, that he doesn't control me, I plant my shoes, curling my toes in. I plan on quitting. They can't fire me, but I follow his order anyway.

I face him with a tall back, his bronze irises with a hint of sadness. "Are you alright?"

Nobody in this theatre, in all of Manhattan, for that matter, knows we've met before. It makes his asking painful, and I do my best to treat him as I would any other of his kind: "Fine," I state plainly. Coldly, and I hope he hears that second tone deep down.

In the background, Evangeline stalks offstage, arms crossed.

Cal's family and the others glance at him oddly, wondering how long it'll take for him to kick me off, hand me over to the stagehands waiting to check for injuries. Hand me over to whoever'll figure out how to avoid this little situation going viral.

The ache the fall brought becomes a thing of the past once again.

"Well?" he asks.

"What?"

"Evangeline asked if you were planning on auditioning. Are you?"

One thing becomes apparent: he was the shadow in my vision when I finished my turns in the studio. On our walk to my apartment, I told him about my dance, my beloved dance. He would never believe a poor girl like me is worthy of auditioning for the Calore Dance Academy unless I proved myself to him. So I did. Unwittingly. The turns I did were not easy. Cal would know.

Prior to letting my mouth fly, cuss and make my final stand, I glare at him. He offers a crooked smile and a tilt of the head, implying a dare. Daring me to perform for these rich bastards, make every last one of them regret snickering at the maid.

Even if I did it, successfully auditioned despite not truly dancing in six months, I don't have the money to pay for tuition. Not a fraction of it. Besides, I can't coexist with these people, and they would never tolerate me.

Cal nods over and over, almost begging me to accept his offer.

I press down on my lips, making my intentions clear.

He snaps his fingers, like some kind of entitled prince, and speaks again. "Somebody find her a leotard, tights, and a pair of broken-in pointe shoes." He holds eye-contact with me the whole time, as though he's worried about me running away. I consider it. But Cal's not giving me a choice in this.

He must think I'm good if he's pushing the issue this hard. Afraid of losing a talented dancer to an ordinary life.

"We have a break coming up in an hour." Cal's father is about ready to burst a vessel, by the way he holds his armrests and leers at his son. The boy next to Cal pales, surveying me. "So you have an hour—I don't believe I caught your name."

Cal deserves a slap, and if I have the chance . . .

"You can call me Mare."


	11. Chapter 11

I'm shaking again as somebody presses a folded leotard and tights into my hands, asks what size my feet are.

Barely in the wing, staring straight ahead, but not really looking at anything. _What the hell just happened?_

I was just granted a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, that's what the hell just happened. Given to me by perhaps the best young dancer at the Academy, even if it made him look like a madman in the process. After I gave Cal my last name, I mutely walked from the stage, a silent acceptance of his offer. I could still run. I should still run.

"Mare?" the man questions, attempting to make my hands react to his, urging the clothing into my grasp. "Your foot size?"

His voice is vaguely recognizable the second time he says it, and my fingers clamp down on the clothing. _The door guard?_ I twist my face to him, at my side with raised brows.

"I'm an eight, street shoe," I tell him, studying the guard I first showed the advertisement poster to. Same black irises, like Evangeline's. Same lack of hair as there was when I greeted him outside the building's front doors. He isn't a stagehand, but security, with a form-fitting shirt, cargo pants, and boots, with a belt around his waist. The entire ensemble is black. The belt carries a walkie-talkie and a gun in a holster, if I'm not mistaken.

What is this place? And why did I tell him my size?

Thinking he's going to abandon me for wherever the shoes are kept, I shift on my feet, but he only cranks his neck for the rafters. "You fell three stories and got up without any help."

"Yes," I acknowledge, thumbing the new fabric. The leotard is cold and silky, a sangria purple. The black tights are soft and flexible. I couldn't have gotten offstage quicker, mortified myself less. I did the right thing in pretending it was nothing, playing it off as an ordinary, silly event. If only Cal hadn't become involved.

"I'll find your shoes," he says, and the guard wants to say more, opening his mouth, but instead hurries from backstage, leaving me alone. To watch the next girl enter from the other stage wing-like nothing ever happened.

* * *

The man—Lucas Samos, I learn with contempt on the way up, cousin of Evangeline Samos—drops me off in a studio identical to the room Cal caught me dancing in, and that's that.

Distantly, a clock ticks away in my conscience, counting down the minutes until I'd go on stage to do my so-called audition. Even with the pointe shoes in hand, leotard and tights draped on a nearby barre, it's ridiculous to believe I'd ever go out there, dance for the people who'd spit on me if they knew where I was from.

Though I know the choreography I'd use. I remember it perfectly and dream about it more often than I care to admit. It was a solo I would've performed at my old studio's recital, the opening act. In the months before I stopped dancing, I practiced the piece relentlessly, stayed at the studio oftentimes until midnight. It was beautiful and a tragedy I never performed it.

All of a sudden, I bark out a harsh laugh, happy for the privacy. I'd hurtle the pointe shoes to the floor if I didn't find them so pretty.

This place . . . its fancy windows and marble . . . this is stupid. I'm stupid, for entertaining the thought of dancing here for a damn second. I can't afford it, so I'm not sure why I'm in this room contemplating it.

I must've hit my head. The way I kept myself poised on stage, rose without crying, and managed those few words to Cal, knowing hundreds watched me, the odd maid with the ugly red uniform, indicates I suffered a brain injury. The whole thing is a blur, and it wasn't long ago.

 _It doesn't make sense_.

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I walk over to the barre, planning to deposit the shoes under it and leave. This can't be my life. I owe it to my family to find a job that I won't quit, that I have a future in. This would be selfish, worse than becoming a life-long maid.

Besides. I don't have the money. So why I entertain this idea, I don't know. I rest my forehead on the barre.

Only to hear a pair of taps hitting the marble floor outside of the room. Crap.

There's one person in this whole building who'd be wearing tap shoes, walking around in them like he owns the place. I haven't been around most of the Academy dancers, but I'm willing to bet it's Cal's individual trademark. Cal, who should be a floor down, judging pointe dancers with the rest of his family.

And there's no way he's walking this hallway not to see me.

I struggle to compose myself in the time he's allowed me, warranted by the harsh click of metal on marble. Straightening my back, I brush the hair out of my way and face the door where he'll inevitably appear.

My hand goes to rest on the leotard, a comfort after so many months. Whatever's Cal's planning to say . . . it won't work. I'll say my piece to him, thank him for the opportunity, and do my best not to hurl insults. Then, I can walk straight out the front, wash my hands of the Calore Dance Academy. As much as my family needs money, a day and a half of pay isn't worth it. Ann probably didn't finish filling out the papers documenting my job. Good thing, too. I would've had to tell her I'm not an adult yet and that I didn't finish high school. It might not be illegal, but I don't want her knowing it.

Cautiously, the door glides ajar, pushed by a concealed force. Cal slips through the crack, hands behind his back as he toes it shut.

 _Do you wear those everywhere for the purpose of announcing your arrival?_

 _What have you done?_

"You're angry with me?" he asks through white teeth, filling the silence. He doesn't bother acknowledging my fall.

I stare at him across the room, and yes, I see how he might find me angry. I haven't begun to change into the provided ballet uniform, and my fists are clenched, prepared to throw a punch. I wonder if he knows how to fight.

I can only imagine what my face looks like.

"You lied to me," I say, not speaking about today.

"No," he argues lightly, approaching me. I hold my ground. "I would've told you who I was had you asked me."

"I didn't know to ask you."

But I see it now. The confident smile, the clearness of his eyes . . . Cal's never had a hard day in his life.

This man . . . this boy, whatever he considers himself, holds a great amount of power at the Academy. With a snap of his fingers, he summoned Lucas to the wings of the stage, awaiting me with a leotard and tights. He's not arrogant or cruel the way Evangeline is, but it pokes at me nonetheless. I tried to steal from Cal, the son of a very, very rich man.

Cal's shrug is his response. He glances at the shoes on the floor, then the leotard and tights, protectively covered by my hand. "Why haven't you changed?"

He doesn't get it. I can't afford it, as I've repeated again and again in my head, but it would be unimaginably selfish, too. I force myself to hold his gaze, even as he towers over me. "If I've learned something in the last week, it's that I need a job. And you got me a job, so thank you. But I can't work here anymore, and I certainly can't dance—"

"Oh, you can dance, alright," he says, interrupting me. "I saw you doing those turns during your cleaning, and from personal experience, they aren't easy. Some of our dancers are struggling with them. So why not audition? You don't have anything to lose."

The room goes quiet the second he stops talking, and I realize we're probably the only two on this floor. Outside, a story below, the people of New York continue walking, oblivious to the Academy's happenings. With nobody around, part of me's tempted to scold him for being such an idiot.

I choose a less violent approach. "It's not—" I stop, failing to come up with the right words. "You're right," I say. "Nothing to lose, but nothing to gain either. You can't possibly think I can afford to dance for this company, with the tuition fees and clothes I'd have to buy. I need a job, Cal. A job to support my family, not the opposite. So I'm leaving."

I go forward, but with a step, Cal blocks my path, his lips parted and eyes unfocused, something about what I said confusing him. "You think you have to pay to dance at this level?" he asks quietly. "I don't know what you think these auditions are for, but this is _it_. Professional ballet, professional tap, professional everything. Not some summer intensive for teens. It's hard work, and you're young to be making a career out of this, but if you make it . . . you get paid. Not the opposite. And a heck of a lot more than a maid makes."

Oh. For a moment, a new scene flashes before my eyes, but I quickly push it away. Because I couldn't. I could never.

Even if money isn't an issue as it always has been.

"I'm not good enough to become a professional dancer," I tell him. It comes out blunt, but I don't care. "I haven't danced in six months. No way am I good enough anymore."

Cal lets out a breathy laugh. "You say that, yet I suspect you practice if you can do those turns. You watch the other girls on stage, and you note their flaws, too, don't you? You're better than most of them."

How could he know that? A couple of _fouettés_ and he thinks he knows everything about me.

No. A walk with me back to my apartment, and he does know everything. He knew I was good even then, just because of the way I talked about dance and myself.

My silence is adequate answer for Cal. Yes, I did pick apart the auditioning dancers' flaws, and yes, I'm as strong, flexible, and graceful as ever, thanks to the training I do in my room.

"You can make up as many excuses as you wish," Cal says. "But I call it a waste if you don't try."

"My mom, my dad, my siblings . . ." I start, and Cal's brows knit, already planning how he'll counter. My resolve's splintering, along with my words, becoming vague and thoughtless.

"They need me, and I can't . . . live this fantasy life out of nowhere." I swallow, crossing my hands behind my back as I stare him down, no more than ten feet away from me. "This might be my dream, but it doesn't matter. They deserve more from me, and I can't have them panicking about me being away until midnight every night. I can't provide for them with a job that I might lose any given day."

Cal backs away, his shoes relatively quiet. "They'll ask questions if I don't return soon. But I expect to see you," he pauses, checking his watch, not modern or electronic, but a basic watch, "in forty minutes. You made it to this room, which leads me to believe that some part of you wants this. It'd be a waste if you didn't try," Cal repeats, shoes clicking as he leaves the room.

* * *

Our discussion is brief, but it hits me like a rock to the gut.

Nothing to lose and everything to gain, so it appears.

I slip on my tights and leotard without giving my doubts a second thought, tie the laces of my pointe shoes—the faintest rose color and nearly alabaster—around my ankles.

 _He's right, clearly_ , I tell my reflection in the mirror, twiddling my hair into a bun at the base of my scalp. The lack of money has proven to be a fictional trouble, and my family . . . I'll figure out how to explain it to them. And if it's a betrayal, it'll work itself out. Because if I don't do this . . .

I've never feared the spotlight. The auditorium will be the biggest I've ever danced on, but I have faith in myself to handle the audience, however judgmental; presumably, it's filled since the crowd in the lobby heard about the falling maid and Cal's madness.

But it could hardly go _wrong_ , after my previous appearance on stage.

Settling myself into a willed, bone-deep calm, I shove my trepidations away, _promising_ myself that if it somehow goes right, I'll sort it all out with myself later.

It won't, but I lean into a stretch for my hamstrings, beginning the process I've gone through each day for a very long time. The stretching alone takes ten minutes, between toe touches, lunges, and splits. In the latter, I press my stomach and face to my leg, pointing my feet and ignoring the slight ache at my tailbone. Aside from that, the motions are a welcome friend, and I jump up to swing out my arms.

Next, I go across the room _en pointe_ , warming up my ankles with the raising and lowering. Then I go through the basic footwork of my old dance, verifying I'm comfortable with it.

I follow myself in the long mirror with diligence, watching for the tiny flaws Cal and the others will notice and add up. I repeat the steps if my shoulders are a fraction too high, relaxing them back. _Good_.

The song I would've danced to was a mournful tune, chords of sadness weaved throughout. I was to play the part of a tearful maiden, crying over a lost lover, or something like that. The recitals were always a complicated, beautiful mess, ballet and tap and jazz and more mixed together in back-to-back performances. My teachers always said that one of these years they'd make a plot out of the recital. I never believed them.

I loved it.

No time to reminisce. A track of music sets about in my head, as it surely did in Evangeline's, and I begin to walk through—or rather dance—the piece my instructors choreographed for me, modeled upon my greatest strengths. Flexibility and turns, the exquisite, glorious things in dance. But they weren't fools who only loved grand gestures; the instructors added footwork, so it wasn't all leaps and spinning.

 _This is a sad song_ , I remind the person dancing in the mirror. _So stop smiling_.

* * *

"Ready?" a voice calls from across the room, startling me. My eyelids are closed and I'm in the middle of turning when the guard says it.

Fumbling, I put a flat foot to the ground to stop myself. Lucas stands at the door, wide-open. Too caught up in rehearsing my dance, I didn't see or hear him come in.

I lift my chin, rolling out my shoulders. "Okay."

"Nervous?" he asks, holding the door for me.

"Not really," I respond with, heading for the nearby stairs. I fell out of my turns once, during the half-hour I had to practice. Then again, I did fine the next five times I repeated them, but . . . _not perfect enough_. If I'm going out on stage, ideally, I'd like to make every member of the audience piss themselves in the process. I'd like to make them feel naive for second-guessing my skill. Which I allegedly have, according to Cal.

The other moves I practiced were rusty put together in the dance at first, but nothing thirty minutes couldn't fix. Ready as I'll ever be.

"Not a bit?"

I glare at Lucas, and the conniving mischief in him melts into something more genuine. He walks beside me, shepherds me downstairs, though the path back isn't difficult to navigate. I don't respond right away.

Everything else went well, as I practiced. Dancing on the roof is one thing, but to return to a studio is a dream come true. My motions were effortless, and I closed my eyes after a while. Doing my routine on stage, in front of eight-hundred . . . if I pull it off . . .

"Crowds don't scare me," I say. "They never have, and they never will. A fall from the rafters can't change that."

My escort frowns but nods, taking me to the left-wing. There's a girl out there who ended her audition a moment ago, bowing to the audience, to the Calores. I scoff.

"Right on time," Lucas recognizes. "Your turn."


	12. Chapter 12

I step out onto the stage, wearing a fraudulent smile.

With the blinding lights above, faces in the audience are obscured shadows, but there's no debating whether eight-hundred individuals are gawking at me or not. Seated in comfortable red-velvet seats, they watch my every breath, hissing thoughts at one another.

Deciding to pretend none of them are there, Cal included, I bring up my chin to the doors at the top of the theatre, past the steep incline of the seats, to the afternoon sun slinking through the entrances.

Soon after I focus my attention on the natural light, though, the doors glide shut, almost of their own accord. To spite me. The rest of the theatre near-black with red exit signs, the stage is what lights up the room, what all eyes are drawn towards.

Were the doors shut for the other dancers? I don't recall.

Still, I watch the panel of wall as the audience watches me. They're aware I'm special, and I'd bet most of them are bewildered that I made it this far, wearing my pretty little ballerina get-up. I might be a maid, but the smart ones are analyzing my figure—the lean muscles on my body, my thin arms and bony chest—and predict there's more going on.

The wall serves me kindly, grounding me to the earth. Over the years I've learned where to look when I couldn't bear looking at my judges. Places that made my judges believe I had all the confidence in the world, even when I didn't. I've always found the back wall a comfort in that way.

"State your name," Cal's father says. I'm glad Cal didn't decide to step in yet again and take his father's line. With the man's solemn voice, the whispering grinds to a halt. I'm half-tempted to roll my eyes at the line.

Though I've seen it before, fell on it, in fact, the platform is larger now. It might be the difference in lighting—because yes, I'm sure the doors were open before. The sturdy floorboards are like an island, a bright speck of light in perhaps an infinite crowd of people.

With the doors closed, I can hardly make out much of anything besides for those dull exit signs. For all I know, the rows of seats might go on for _miles_.

I snicker at my imagination.

"Mare Barrow," I say into the black. The lights above me are hot, and they must illuminate about every pore, every imperfection on my body. I keep staring at the one point where the doors were.

The father of Cal emits a sound of contemplation, setting my nerves on edge. Though my heart beats normally. It can be as though I'm dancing for nobody but myself, in front of a nonexistent group of people, if I don't pay them attention. It's a great dance, with great choreography—

"My son says you can dance, Mare Barrow," he repeats my name, and I don't like the sound of it on his tongue. "You did fall from the rafters to audition. So you prove to me you are a _decent_ ballet dancer, and then we'll talk."

I'm honestly shocked nobody laughs at the man. Out of respect or fear, I suppose.

"Very well," I say under my breath, but the theatre might carry sound well enough for him to hear me.

Venturing further, past the centerline, I turn away and face the corner. It's unsettling to not be able to see them, though I can't imagine what they could do to me from their seats.

In an instant, my face melts from a small smile to an open-mouthed frown, a gasp. I make my eyes wreak of sorrow, mourning, just as the melody suggests. A sad, lonely girl. A loss of a lover or father . . . it's hardly relevant. Loss is loss, and it hurts all the same.

The loss of a father who could run and walk down the streets of Manhattan with me; a brother who's gone, dust in the wind; or a passion, cemented bone-deep with no hope of _ever_ getting rid of it.

A moment longer, and the audience, the damned members of it, will begin to grow restless and antsy. So I find my positioning, with a graceful, defeated slouch, if it's possible, and begin breathing heavily. As if I'm crying. The leading instructor of my studio always emphasized acting. To dance is half of it, to act, to _bleed_ , is the other, equally vital part. The girls before me, they used little to no facial expression. Evangeline was good enough, but her's was only blithe and haughty and lacked raw emotion.

I take a deep breath.

The track of slow music begins in my head, steady and strong.

So do I.

On the lonely stage, I begin my old dance.

I force myself to forget everyone. It's easier when I have no fear of messing up or failing altogether. The first motions, though I wish I had more time to review them, come to me naturally, and I get lost in them. I get lost in the freedom I find in them.

The maiden I play shows her face after she stretches her arms, slouches farther over, and sheds her tears. She rushes forward, leaping high.

 _Nothing but an empty, abandoned theatre_.

The silent music doesn't falter, and neither do I, caught up in a beautiful rhythm as the beat grows faster and louder.

Without having to check, my feet are pointed perfectly and my posture is tall. I use the space to the fullest, as though it's the world and I'm the last one alive. Which means I must be as big as it, consume it, and own it. My kicks rise above my head and my leaps are controlled. I run with purpose, conviction, when the maiden decides to run.

The turns . . . oh, the turns.

The maiden turns with strong legs and shows her sorrow to the world with an uncaring pride.

All those months ago, I knew my dance better than the palm of my hand. As it comes back to me, the eight-counts ebb away, and music overtakes my imagination. To guide my pace, the pretend music track plays steadily along in my mind, never wavering, never faltering.

I drift further and further from the audience, from reality. There's something addictive in the dance and the music, something I want to cling to forever. Like on the roof, not only getting lost in the dance . . . but losing myself altogether.

Losing those jaded parts, the heartbreak that comes with the loss of a walking father, a brother, and a passion. Because here, in these pointe shoes, I'm not the same person as I am at home. _Mare Barrow, the high school dropout, the ex-dancer, the poor girl_. Though I told my name, it means nothing. I am nothing but a dancer here.

The tear slipping down my cheek is not the maiden's.

I trust myself enough to squeeze my eyes shut, stopping the tears, and feel the floor beneath my feet, though I haven't been dancing on it for long. I trust my pounded-in habits: _Head tilted up, a long neck, a back not arched._ And more. The other girls were so nervous, so terrified. I do my best to be everything they're not.

Opening my eyes to turn, I'm facing the audience again, having completed the shortest sequence of the dance. The music ceases, and I stare out, shifting from the far left to the far right. I bring my arms up, then down to the sides, to present myself and the show I would've begun.

I survey the shadows longer than I should, drawing me to the present. Though they don't scare me, the adrenaline in my veins overpowering logic. I see each figure, waiting for whatever I have in store next.

Motionless and quiet. Good. It means I'm not a joke. Maybe.

And suddenly, I find myself. Pulled from a lulling abyss.

Downstage, I complete three _pirouettes,_ intent on screaming my heartache. To explain to them, what I am and _what_ I've been through, and why they'll never laugh or roll their eyes at me again.

I watch them and they watch me as I retreat, my heart pounding at the interaction. I don't let them see it, though. They see power and strength and grief.

I carry on.

Like Evangeline, ferocious in everything she did, I dance through a series of what appears to be basic, simple moves, but anybody who's danced knows my footwork took years to perfect. I exaggerate the steps for notability, feet smacking the stage. This is no delicate dance.

The music nears its peak, the strings of a violin booming with my _arabesques_. I push myself in each motion, convincing my legs to go high, higher than I practiced. Gorgeous, long arms. Pointed feet.

I thought it had been all for nothing, the night I slammed the door to my room, screaming and crying into my pillow for hours. I had hit rock bottom, and there was this unbearable pain in my heart, so unbearable there _had_ to have been something wrong with it. And then those years I spent training in the studio with my beloved mentors felt insignificant, when I had poured my heart and soul into learning for it all to amount to nothing.

I didn't care about anything else. Not when everything had been ruined.

The dance would be longer if I was performing it for the recital. But I have a feeling I've already gone over my time, as mangled as my sense of it is.

I greet the stage's center, preparing to end it with the same turns Cal caught me doing. In a mockery of Evangeline's performance, I sweep my arms around, though the crowd does not yell at me to finish it as they did for her.

I bring my right foot behind me, and without another frivolous arm gesture, begin my _fouett_ _é_ _s_.

 _Fouettés_. Considered one of the most difficult movements in ballet, something the other teenagers at my studio never dared to try. Yet after seeing them online, I was obsessed.

All that pathetic practice in my bedroom is enough for me to still do them. I turn and turn, whipping around, my leg a stock-still force as the other comes in and out. Sixteen . . . sixteen of them, and then I'm done.

Odd, but I don't want it to be over. Even if I'm nowhere up to par with the standards of the Calore Dance Academy and have thoroughly embarrassed myself. In that case, I'll have to start dancing up on my roof again.

The lights heat my body, and my legs and chest burn.

Sixteen turns, and then I fall.

* * *

My side hits the stage gently, and legs bent, they curl towards my stomach. Hands pressing on the ground, my face ends up an inch from the wood, looking straight down at it.

An intentional fall, not like from the rafters.

At the end of my dance, I'm supposed to fall, in a fluid and poised sort of way. And I do, collapsing on myself mid-turn. My vision limited to what's underneath me, I focus on what I feel: the solid wood beneath my body and leotard, warmed by the glaring lights, the palpable shock in the audience, and the joyous tingle in my feet. The tingle that will later become an ache.

For longer than I should, I just lie there, breathing heavily and refusing to give my surroundings a gander. The fall was intentional, and I practiced it to look the part—

Applause.

It starts with one clap, a single smacking together of hands. From somewhere to the right, not from Cal. And after one clap, everything changes. It isn't whoops or cries or laughter, the tentative clapping, but a smile blooms at my lips, however hard I try to keep it at bay.

I push myself up, rising to my full height. The time it takes between lying down, a pathetic, heartbroken girl, and standing up is unbearable.

Still the same shadows, every last one of them a mystery to be solved.

I nod, so different and irreverent from the deep bows and curtsies my competitors gave their assessors before I walk off.

* * *

As much as I want to, I don't keep walking past the wings. Instead, I stop right next to Lucas, sit down, and begin unlacing my pointe ribbons.

"Well. Shit," he says.

I huff a laugh. It's all I can manage.

Lucas props himself against one of the cement pillars at the stage's edge. He crosses his arms. "So how did such a talented ballerina end up working as a maid here?"

Another laugh. "An incredibly long story," I explain, not intending to elaborate if he prods. Nobody needs to know about Cal's hand in this; it would lead to questions and trouble. "What should I do now?" I ask, hoping to curve him off the topic.

"I have no idea," he says with a shrug. "Typically, a dancer auditions, and next weekend we have our acceptance ceremony. I have a feeling you're a special case, though."

I nod distantly.

"How are you so calm about this?"

"I-"

Lucas's phone begins ringing, and it isn't until then do I realize I'm shaking again, shaking so hard I can barely manage a grip on the ribbons. Looking over my shoulder, there isn't another dancer waiting to come on from either side. I still can hear faint clapping, gradually dulling into those whispers.

That just happened.

I danced, when I haven't _danced_ in _months_ , with about half an hour to prepare beforehand. The crowd applauded for me, and I offered but a nod of my chin in return. _They applauded for me_. I hold back tears—and possibly vomit—sure to come later, subdued for now by Lucas and whoever he's on the phone with.

I try to review my dance, though it's no more than a blurred dream. During it, I let go of any worries, any awareness, passing on my performance, my fate, to my subconsciousness. The one part I can recall with any clarity is when I came to the front, and peered out, finding nothing but shadows.

 _Ah, the shadows._

Maybe it was nothing spectacular, and the audience only clapped because they were impressed that the maid stood on pointe without breaking her ankles.

But . . . those _fouettés_ . . . unless I've totally lost it, they were good, better than any practiced in my measly thirty minutes of rehearsal. And the way I fell . . . it had to have looked planned. It _was_ planned.

Lucas says "yes," into his cellphone, over and over, taking in seemingly complex instructions. I don't do anything, sitting helplessly on the floor with fingers too numb for removing my shoes.

The overhead lights dim as Lucas says a "Yes, sir," to the receiver on the other end, and I can vaguely tell the theatre doors are open. But auditions aren't done, and I doubt they're resuming their break. With the number of people out in the lobby, tryouts must be going late into the night. Unless—

It's something else, by the _waiting_ look Lucas has, slipping his phone into his pocket. I give up in my efforts to take off my shoes, the shaking worsening.

"What?"

The security guard offers me two blinks. "The owner of the Academy would like to meet you. And offer you a different job."


	13. Chapter 13

"Where are we going?" I ask Lucas, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with him up yet another flight of stairs.

"Mister Calore's office," Lucas says simply. I bite my tongue when I could've told him that. But he continues, saying, "You're lucky I'm taking you up the back route instead of through the lobby. They're all gathered there, you know."

The entire audience? The stage lights dulled, and the auditorium doors opened, indicating another break. But for all of them to gather? Just for a closer look?

I steal a quelling breath. I won't have to pass through the lobby or the audience. It's fine. Everything's going to be fine.

"After everything you've done today, I'm surprised you're so nervous about this part," Lucas says, shaking his head. "Any of those dancers downstairs would kill to go to Tiberias Calore's office and discuss matters of dancing."

For everything said, I only pay attention to the name. "Tiberias?" I say in the most respectful manner I can.

Lucas doesn't bother with repressing his laugh, echoing off the stairs. "I have no idea why a father would name his child that. Cal's real name is Tiberias, by the way, like his dad. I dare you to call him that some time." Lucas's chuckling dies in his throat. "Who told him you could dance? He didn't take no for an answer when he suggested you audition."

Rather than conjure up a lie, I go for the truth. Or a partial truth, at least. Lies always come back to bite me in the butt. "I was cleaning one of the studios this morning, and he saw me messing around with my turns. I guess Cal thought it'd be a shame if I didn't audition, so when I ended up falling onstage . . . he pushed it." I don't tell Lucas about meeting him outside of a bar, or Cal's convincing words in the studio.

"Cal knows talent when he sees it. He's the best dancer under twenty years old at the Academy. Of course, his old man wouldn't let it be otherwise." Lucas shakes his head disbelievingly again. "My family's been working and practicing under the Calores for years, and I've always seen Cal at the top of his class. Yet he's humble, which is more refreshing than you'd believe."

"I believe it," I say, turning with Lucas as we reach the top of the staircase. "The people who dance here aren't very nice, are they?" Evangeline can't be the only one. "Your whole family has dealings with the Calores?"

"More or less. My parents and Evangeline's have business dealings with them dating far back, and Evangeline has basically been bred to dance for this company her whole life."

"Business dealings?"

Lucas eyes me sidelong. "Trust me. It's all more boring than you can possibly imagine."

Our conversation fades away as we walk down the hallway. Identical to the ones upstairs, with the sunset marble and cream walls. On the side closest to the stairs, there are classrooms, and on the left . . . offices, I'd guess., by the closed doors and nameplates.

Between the doors along the left wall rest framed paintings and photographs of men that are long passed away. The first half of the hallway contains the paintings, blooming with rich color and eyes that I swear watch me. Further down are the photographs, evolving from gritty black and white to technicolor to modern and regular. Some wear fashion hundreds of years outdated, the newer ones in simple suits. _Caesar, Julias, Tiberias, Marcas, Tiberias, Tiberias_ . . .

If their stern, forboding expressions didn't have me jumping out of my skin, their names do.

What a family history.

I scuff my pointe shoes, cross my arms, and look at the marble. I wonder if I would've ended up mopping this floor later in the week. Even if I can see a dull reflection of myself in it.

The end of the hallway approaches, no stairs or fork in the corridor in sight. I didn't think we'd get here so quickly.

At least Lucas offered me some clothes, so I don't have to go into this meeting with what I auditioned in. Though I still wear my point shoes, a pair of black leggings and a slim warm-up jacket now rest atop my tights and leotard.

I don't feel vulnerable in the skin-tight clothing, not after wearing this stuff for years, but I'd prefer to have pants on for this.

"Mare?"

"Yes?"

"Do yourself, the world, a favor: Don't talk back to him."

I open my mouth but find myself facing a completely serious Lucas. Dull eyes, a tight smile, demanding my agreement.

I know nothing of Tiberias Calore. Only his voice and its hint of cruelty.

"Fine."

"Excellent." Coming to the final doors on the left, he knocks. It's a wide set of double doors, painted white and adorning a peephole. Fair enough.

A disembodied voice calls, "Come in," using a gruff tone. "You too, Lucas."

 _There's nobody else he's expecting_ , I tell myself, but it unnerves me anyway.

Lucas twists down on the gilded handle and opens the door. I slip through after him, and he closes it behind us.

The room is like a . . . bachelor pad. Half of it, anyway, with its TV, gaggle of chairs and sofas, and coffee tables of different sizes. A pool table stands further away from the setup, a cabinet that must hold all manner of alcohol next to it. With the brick walls and the manly colors . . . yes, bachelor pad is the best description for it.

Where there'd usually be a long window, curtains hang. Light-cancelling, thick black curtains. Instead, intricate chandeliers cast the room in a warm color.

Across the room, there's a colossal black desk and bookshelves against the wall to frame it. A computer monitor and keyboard, a stack of paper, knickknacks, and a glass of water decorate the top. Before it rests an oriental carpet, red and black and gold, patterns too advanced for my eyes to fully memorize. I avoid looking at the man behind the desk.

The woman who sat by Tiberias, presumably his wife, stands by the desk, resting a dainty, manicured hand on it. She wears a yellow sundress. Approaching, I decide she's too pretty, unnaturally pretty, with her long eyelashes seen from ten feet away, porcelain skin, and waved pale blonde hair. She doesn't look happy to be here, in this room, with me, and she's not hiding it. As if I'm interrupting her schedule. Though a bit of intrigue waits in her cold-as-ice blue eyes.

Cal and his unnamed brother lean against one of their father's bookshelves, on the other side of the desk from their mother. Cal's brother watches me carefully, assessing. Then there's Cal, with a neutral face, or trying to appear neutral, anyway. Because I've seen far better poker faces.

The other three judges are nowhere to be seen.

"Sit," Tiberias orders, and I'm startled when I realize I've traveled but a few feet from the desk. "You, too, Lucas."

Lucas pulls out one of the two chairs in front of the desk for me, and I sink into it, no longer able to avert my eyes at fancy chandeliers or foreign carpets. Lucas sits down beside me, and I'm glad for it, even if he's not actually on my side.

The man I face is Cal, but twenty-five years older. Age is the single difference as far as I can tell. The two have the same broad and muscled build, fiery eyes, and black hair, the former with grey streaks in his. He wears a white button-up shirt, and he picks me apart hair by hair prior to speaking.

"Where, girl, do you dance?" _Present tense_.

It's not rhetorical. I give him the name of my studio, which has probably changed since I've been there.

"Never heard of it. Have you?" Tiberias looks at Cal, who still leans impassively against the shelf.

Cal shakes his head.

"It's in East Harlem, and it never made a name for itself," I say, putting it simply. My voice comes out pleasantly clear, and I surprise myself. "No one's heard of it. For all I know, it could be closed."

The last part sparks another question, and I picture his voice asking it while they take in my explanation.

The woman's hand fists up, from the corner of my eye. It's she who asks it. "What do you mean, for all you know, it could be closed? You don't dance there anymore?" Even her voice is something else, syrupy, too sweet. I don't like her. But the feeling is mutual, based on her air; she isn't the kind of person who likes anybody.

Tiberias steeples his fingers, leaning forward on his elbows. Awaiting my response.

Past him are the bookshelves, five of them total, pushed together to create one whole unit. Each one is a good eight feet tall, five feet wide. The titles are small and too far to read, but I wonder what they're about. Dance, obviously, but Lucas also mentioned the Calores have business dealings. Yes, some must be business publications.

The Calores are filthy rich. And dance doesn't create billionaires, no matter how successfully they've run this company. What's their second business?

Enough. Stay focused. Look him in the eye.

"I quit six months ago," I start. This story isn't a pleasant one for me to tell, and I've already told it to Cal, against better judgment. Across the desk, he focuses on his father, as if trying to read him.

I begin, not giving Tiberias or his wife the chance to interject. "Like I said, I'm not from around here. Joining dance when I was little was probably a bad idea, considering my family's never been well off. But things have been getting worse for a while now." I don't mention my father.

"So last winter, my parents couldn't afford to pay for it anymore, and they pulled me out." I tell the tale simply and with no self-pity. It's gotten worse, since then. My brothers can't hold jobs, Shade left even before I quit, and tips are dry at Mom's hotel.

I haven't dared to come within a block of my studio since.

The Calore family could afford to pay for one-hundred girls' tuitions. I hope he doesn't register the simmering bitterness in my face.

"Yet your performance . . ." Tiberias says, "was good."

 _Not perfect. Needs improvement_. I shift in my seat. But I was called up into his office. It must mean I did something right. "I've continued to practice on my own time, and so I've retained most of my skills. It's not ideal . . . but I can't afford to start taking classes again."

I'm only glad he doesn't put two and two together. I'm a teenager if I can still enroll at studios, and I'm working as a maid at his company. _High school dropout_. Or maybe he does and gives me the small kindness of not saying anything. A diploma doesn't do any good for a dancer, after all.

"Prodigy," Cal's brother says.

"That's not normal." Tiberias taps his fingers on the desk, evidently mulling his ideas over. "Do you dance other genres as well?."

I think back to all my years at the studio. Ballet was my great love, but I competed in jazz, tap, and hip hop, too. My teachers pushed me to be well-versed when it came to all dance forms, and I was hardly against putting in more hours. Though I never performed solos in those genres, whereas I had been competing with solos in ballet since age twelve.

"I trained in classical ballet ninety-percent of the time, I'd say. But it was a strange studio. Some weekends we'd do ballet competitions, others tap and jazz. I loved every minute of it." Though I don't recall placing in a single group dance during all the years I competed with the other girls. I was different. I cared more.

Tiberias clucks his tongue, bracing his elbows on his desk. Cal and his brother shift on their feet. Tiberias's wife stands motionless, and her eyes might as well be ice.

Mister Calore's gaze is calculating as he looks upon me again. He sighs."I'd have you audition for the other genres, but it wouldn't be time well spent. I don't know how much you know about the Manhattan Dance Academy, but ballet is our main genre, as it is yours. We train year-round in it, and host fall, winter, and spring shows.

"Fall is typically the off-season, and it's then our ballet dancers have time to focus on tap, contemporary, ballroom, and whatever else they please if they have experience in it while still keeping up with ballet. We find it's good for them, loosening up and experiencing new things. But during our performing months, there isn't time for extra genres, unless that's your major. And we are world-renowned for those programs."

I nod repeatedly at the information he's throwing at me.

"As you saw, Evangeline Samos is an incredible dancer. But for ballet particularly, our Principals, soloists, and higher-up Corps dancers are partnered off. It gives our ballets an intimacy we like to see. This year, Evangeline will be dancing with my son, Cal. I assume you've already met him."

"Yes," I say, not bothering with a glance towards him. _Multiple times_ , in fact. "But I don't follow."

"Despite your . . . background," Tiberias begins, and I bite my tongue, nails digging into leather chair arms, "you are extraordinarily talented. I've never heard of your East Harlem studio, and honestly, a dancer like you shouldn't exist if you're from that part of town.

"But if you promise to not sue us for falling from the stage rafters and blame yourself in any media attention you might get . . . you'll have a role."

Is he bribing me? Not letting myself think about it, I nod at his demands. I wasn't planning on telling anybody anyway, but if my silence benefits me—

"I'd like for you to become my younger son's partner." Tiberias doesn't even turn around to look at his other son as he says it.

The boy standing next to Cal . . . his jaw drops. So does mine. He gives me a look over, unsure what to make of this. Neither do I.

 _This is insane._

 _This is insane._

 _This is insane._

"She doesn't even know my name," the boy says, displeased, and I'd be offended if I wasn't so shocked myself. If Cal's the best dancer at the Academy, then his brother must also be sought out as a partner.

"Mare Barrow, meet Maven Calore," Tiberias drawls.

He's a couple of inches shorter than Cal, hair thick and skimming his ears. And he doesn't have his father's eyes, but his mother's unforgiving icy blue. His skin is paler than his brother's, and his physique's leaner, though still muscled from years of dance.

And I see it: a shadow to his brother's flame.

Yet I see us as partners too, just because of our heights and frames that would pair well together. I've never danced with a partner before. All the boys in East Harlem thought dancing was for girls.

"I've never even talked to her," Maven pleads quietly. Timid. He stares at the back of his father's head, begging him to turn around. Tiberias continues his unwavering gaze towards me. "I've met the other girls in the running. None of us have spoken with her before today, and you're giving her an elite position?"

Tiberias deigns to turn around, meeting his son's gaze. Mighty fire against blundering ice.

"I am. You know better than to question my wisdom, Maven. You two will compliment each other as dancers. Unless you're not interested in having a partner this season at all. Elara?"

The woman's name. She purses her lips. "Your father's correct, Maven. She's a fine dancer, and she'll compliment you."

Cal elbows his brother not so gently.

"Yes, father," Maven says, yielding.

To be honest, I feel bad. Though he is younger than Cal, he seems too secondary. When Cal arrived from backstage, announcing his arrival to his father—dad is too peasant-like—Tiberias said _your brother scored in your place_. In Cal's place. Like they couldn't afford to have another judge.

Lucas told me to not rattle off my mouth, but if he hadn't, I'd suggest _pairing_ me with another dancer, for Maven's sake. But I'm already walking a thin wire, and the last thing I want to do is get myself kicked out of this place for stepping out of line when I'm hardly _on the line_.

For my selfish sake, I swallow my comments, pushing further into the chair. It'll even itself out.

Right?

Tiberias says to Lucas, "We should resume auditions. Give her the papers. And a pamphlet. It has everything she'll need. And her day and a half's pay."

I was tempted, but I would've gone to Ann, not asked the owner himself for the money. Another way to for sure to get me kicked out of the building and put on a no entrance list for my attitude.

Maybe I'll buy myself a present. Just this once.

"Thank you." I push out of my chair.

I catch Maven's blank face again, staring ahead into nothing, before Lucas and I turn to leave.

* * *

I take the front entrance out, happy for the change of clothes I keep in my bag. My family would be confused and concerned if I came home in a new outfit or a uniform not too different from Mom's.

And I don't need more scrutiny from the dancers in the lobby with that red menace of a shirt.

There are a stack of papers and a hefty pamphlet in my bag, along with a hundred dollars, crumpled-up black pants—I returned the shirt to the Maids' Quarters—and the ballet uniform and new clothes they're letting me keep. I'm greeted with blowing humidity as I step outside. Shade's not wrong. We need a nice long downpour to wash out this heatwave.

 _Again, I swear if this heat keeps going on, the dawn's going to start sweating red._

The second-to-last line of his letter sticks with me, and I don't know why. It was a weird way to end a message, not entirely making sense. Did he mean the sky's going to sweat blood? I've heard of it happening in rare cases, but no, Shade isn't poetic like that. Unless he's changed since living at home, but . . .

 _Rise, Red as the Dawn._

Farley's last words from her terrorist-video come to mind. Following her "the rich are corrupt; we will destroy you," banter, she finished the broadcast with the Street Fighter's apparent motto, but it didn't make sense. An inside joke, but minus the joke, apparently.

I put the pieces together. _Dawn. Red._

When Mom asked if he had gotten involved with a gang last year, Shade paused. As though Shade, even tough Shade, struggled to lie to his own mother.

The Scarlet Street Fighters are indeed a gang.


	14. Chapter 14

Yesterday, I gave myself . . . a break.

I didn't go into Will's store to yell at him about the Scarlet Street Fighters or to demand if he knew where Shade or Farley was. I didn't steal the family phone from Gisa—it's a miracle our apartment has free Wi-Fi—to search for information on the gang. I didn't even reread Shade's letter, because the wording wasn't going to change. I remember it clearly.

I also haven't so much as flipped open the pamphlet or gone through the papers nestled in my bag or considered how to tell my family the news. I came home, put another hundred of my savings from Wall Street on the table, retreated to my room, and stashed the bag under my bed.

Gisa was in bed when I knelt down to stow it. Up until this week, I rarely carried anything, but with the maid's job, having something to put a spare set of clothes in was nice, even if it seemed weird to my family. Fortunately, none of them noticed the change during the two days, and Gisa was too mopey to ask about it last night. Mom and Dad especially don't care to _notice_ anything related to my old profession.

 _Because that's what it is now. Pickpocketing is dangerous, you've said it yourself. You can't risk injury any more._

If she wasn't so damn right, I'd be constantly angry with the rational half of me.

This week was the last time I'll ever pickpocket if this whole dance thing works out. Though I haven't the faintest idea of how it will.

My fellow passengers almost shove me off the subway with them at the stop before mine. I cling to the metallic bar at the end of a blue bench, keeping a close eye on my bag, its handle resting on my shoulder. The crowded areas are where you're most susceptible to theft, and the subway is among the worst. I should know. I've pickpocketed on subways and in subway stations plenty.

The subway doors glide shut and the metro starts up again, the speeding, gliding motion returning me to my thoughts.

First off, my partner doesn't like me. Though I was as flabbergasted as he was at his father's proposition—no, not a proposition, but an ultimatum. Either have me as his partner or have no partner at all. And Maven's not wrong: he doesn't know me like he knows the girls who have taken intensives at the Academy all summer long, in preparation for their auditions.

And I just blew all of those girls out of the water.

But if he has a grudge against me because of where I'm from, then we'll have a problem.

Not my problem for now, though. Tiberias seems to control his son well enough, and I have no power over the situation. When classes start, then I'll try to make friends with him, make our partnership less miserable for both of us.

The big problem I've previously mentioned is my family. I've figured the Academy is a four-mile walk from the apartment, or more realistically, a thirty-minute commute, between walking a few blocks and taking the subway.

The transportation part is easy enough, but the class hours will ruin me. A lot of my questions, including those concerning my soon-to-be schedule, could be solved by looking in the pamphlet, the fabric of my bag the only barrier between it and my hand. Out of some fear, I've avoided it.

Lucas said classes start in a week, next Monday, after they announce placements on Saturday evening. I have time.

But no matter what, I will be getting home late. Late to the point where I'll have to tell the truth about where I am all day long, or else come up with a hell of a story to cover me. I shouldn't have to lie to my family, achieving a dream I thought was lost, and yet . . . I'm still responsible for breaking Gisa's hand, hurting _her_ dreams. It doesn't feel okay for me to be the sister who comes out on top so soon.

I was planning on telling them, but the second I got into the apartment, saw Tramy slumped in front of the TV, Mom slaving in the kitchen, I couldn't.

And I'm seventeen. I don't have the free will of an adult like Shade did when he decided to leave. If my parents find out I'm dancing again and spending my days in Midtown, they could pull me out, just like they did the first time. They wouldn't, but a creeping unease tells me to wait and think.

They wouldn't, would they?

 _Something more realistic_ , they said the first time.

The good news: I have a week to ponder it.

The subway begins to slow, screeching, and I loosen my grip on the handrail as the train goes from slow to unmoving with a small jerk, sending everybody on board shifting their feet.

Today's task doesn't involve dance, but it's carrying me close to the Calores, not two blocks west. The proximity makes me anxious, even if I won my place there and have nothing to be ashamed of. They should all be cooped up in the auditorium, anyhow.

But just in case, I wear my black baseball cap and completely unremarkable clothing. If I keep my head down, there won't be an issue, even if a couple are out for a midday walk.

I'm just going to the library.

I hop off the train, fast-walking to escape the torrent of oncoming passengers behind me. The station is no different from the hundreds of others throughout the city, with its dingy tiles, painted support beams, and white fluorescents.

Each set of stairs has a central landing, making for a total of twenty stairs. I take two steps at a time, reach the top, and cross the ticketing room for another set. The same gross, artificial lighting greets my eyes, and I hurry up, wanting to feel the sun on my skin, even if I lose the coolness of being underground. Shade's message carries a newfound dark meaning, but I still wouldn't mind a rain.

Off to the edge of the ticketing area I pass, there's a band of four, consisting of a guitar player, a drummer, and two singers, a male and female. The guitar case at their feet with stray dollars reminds me of the money I carry from my day and a half of work.

Paranoid, I clear the second set and exit the subway station, quickly checking that the cash is still in my possession. Five twenty dollar bills, safely tucked in a zipper pocket.

Within a minute, sweat is prickling at my underarms. It's another cloudless day, the shadows of buildings the only defense combating a blazing sun.

The station exit is at the library's side, and I continue around the corner for the main entrance. In Manhattan alone, there are dozens of public libraries, but this is the largest, one of the largest in the world, to be precise. I could've stayed closer to home; no chance of running into Academy dancers there, but . . . this one's nice.

Besides. I need to get away from home for my research, for my sanity. The less opulent library near my apartment is quiet and reminds me of my family. Here, at the main library hardly off from Times Square, it's loud and full of life, in spite of the librarians' will.

I skip stairs, weaving through those sitting on the steps, the white-marble building shimmering ahead in the intense heat. I take a moment to admire the massive columns and shaped windows before I enter, greeted with blasting air conditioning and new people.

My sister's the reader of the family, so she probably knows the building better than I do. But with the cool air to motivate me, I approach a security officer and open my bag for him. I look up so my cap doesn't hide my face.

If he has the snark Lucas had when I first met him, he doesn't show it. The officer shines a flashlight in my bag and nods, deeming me safe and irrelevant.

I sling the bag over my shoulder and make my way further into the entryway. It's an old building, columns and marble and pale stone inside and outside, and comparable to a palace you'd find in a fairy tale book. I decide that I have no idea where I'm heading, and I pull over to a map bolted into a glass case.

It doesn't take long for me to get called out on my confusion. "Is there anything I can help you with?" a woman asks behind me too quickly.

I twirl, embarrassed. Library staff, based on her outfit and overenthusiastic smile. I must look utterly lost.

"Could I use a computer somewhere?" The question sounds stupid, but I don't have the energy to rephrase it.

* * *

The woman takes me to a room full of computers, as promised.

The room itself is beautiful and reminds me of the Academy. Adorned in white marble, orangish tiles, and chandeliers, the room sprawls with colossal bookshelves taking up an entire wall and half of both its adjacent walls. They're filled with colorful reference books, too thick for me to take a second glance at as I walk by, searching for a vacant computer.

Above the shelved wall are arched windows, metal bars creating little boxes within them. Higher, as high as the Academy's stage rafters, is the ceiling, gilded and carved, a frame for the life-like painting of a pink-clouded sky in its center.

Away from the rows of wooden tables, chairs, and computers, is a massive librarians' counter, stretching from one side of the room to the other, and with plenty of scowling old ladies behind it.

While the library has an abundance of books, it's also a legitimate museum, packed with tourists, students, and scholars, but to my delight, I find a computer at the end of the back row. I sit down before anybody else can claim it.

I log on and enter a browser, thankful I don't have to type in my library card. But even if I had to, it shouldn't matter. With the scale of the Scarlet Street Fighter's attack on the rich, it should be this week's headline and nothing peculiar to be searching for.

I'm here for information on the Scarlet Street Fighters. I need to know who they are and what their goal is, other than their "exposing and bringing down the rich" drivel. Everything about them is vague to me, other than the violence going on because of them and that Shade Barrow and Diana Farley are part of them.

The thought of my brother being involved with Farley's gang sends chills skittering across my spine, and maybe it would be best if I kept myself detached from it all the way my parents do. They rarely have the news on at home, and unless Mom's heard something at work, neither of them would know of the attacks unless they read the paper.

I type 'Scarlet Street Fighters,' into Google, holding my breath.

My eyes scan result after result, and I dim the screen, continuing to scroll.

 _Terrorist Group, Dubbed The "Scarlet Street Fighters," Vows Revenge Against Local Billionaires._

 _Cygnet Hydrotech, Along With Sister Businesses, Targeted By Radical "Scarlet Street Fighters."_

 _The "Scarlet Street Fighters" and the Mysterious Blonde Woman Who Plunged Manhattan Into Chaos._

 _Bloody Street Fighters—What We Know So Far._

The search results are miles-long. The articles are written by _The_ _New York Times_ and other well-known, esteemed news companies, though the last title sounds a bit . . . tabloid-ish.

My job having kept me busy, I haven't had the time or brainpower to consider Farley's message, not until I walked outside yesterday afternoon—and realized what my brother's been doing with his time.

I should've made the connection when first reading Shade's letter, and I feel stupid for not realizing it sooner or following up on the attack in the first place. Guilt tugs me to go home and yell after Will.

But I click on the first result, _Terrorist Group, Dubbed The "Scarlet Street Fighters," Vows Revenge Against Local Billionaires_ , wishing they just had a website or a Twitter profile for me to follow.

* * *

If it was time well spent, I couldn't tell you.

I read the first four articles listed and then a couple more at random, before giving up and stalking out of the library to its adjoining park.

From what I gathered, the NYPD is searching for leads twenty-four-seven and aching to get their claws on a Street Fighter. I'm guessing the detectives' fervor in this case is from Mister Cygnet's—the billionaire owner of a hydroelectric company trying to bring more renewable energy into the city—generous donation to the police department.

Prior to the attack, the Scarlet Street Fighters were just another gang, with slightly different motives. Usually gangs are after drugs or money, but this one's not associated with any illegal businesses. Before now, they were practically harmless. Their attacks against greedy barons in alleys and parking garages always went wrong thanks to ruthless bodyguards. The word of a billionaire against a felon and the Fighter would be behind bars in an instant. Those who weren't so lucky, their deaths were played off as self-defense. And so it's been going for three or four years.

This is the first time they've had a notable success and more than a footer in the media.

 _Millions of dollars of destruction_ , the news lady said. They may have not killed anyone, but they did a hell of a job in destroying the buildings without getting caught. Offices were obliterated: desks and stacks of documents were burned and then put out, threats were written in red paint on walls, and a ridiculous number of computers and tablets were stolen.

In the labs of the corporations is where the most damage occurred, where the _millions of dollars_ part starts to sound convincing. Hydropower research and miniature prototypes were burned at Cygnet Hydrotech, and similar events of "vandalism" took place at its sister companies. I'd hardly call it vandalism. This was brutal, systematic crime.

I can't help but agree with the articles. They're terrorists. There's talk of the FBI getting involved, especially after Farley and her crew hacked a news network to broadcast their message. The police supposedly have a handle on it, but if something happens again . . . I hate the rich too, but this is complete anarchy.

What baffles me is how they pulled it off. There weren't any reported deaths, meaning the buildings were vacated, which seems odd. No night watch security guards or late-night researchers, and the fire alarms and security systems were disabled.

And aside from the attack, nobody knows where they came from. The Street Fighters popped up in the city a few years ago with their radical beliefs and violence. They only attack in Manhattan, logical, as most big-shot corporations are wedged in the borough. But the police have no inkling where in the city they might be based, and they've had no luck in tracking down Cygnet's stolen tech.

I slump into a wrought-iron chair on the big lawn at the backside of the library, one of many scattered among tables throughout the tree-fenced area. It's sweltering, yet plenty of people are out, sitting in chairs and on grass, and children run around the trees.

So I did learn something. I'm just debating if I have use for it or not.

I just want Shade to be safe.

 _No use in thinking about it_. I adjust my cap so it covers my eyes.

The papers in my bag are a sudden itch now that there's little I can do against the Street Fighters.

 _I have to look at them at some point._

Almost growling to myself, I yank my bag onto the grass, unzipping it. The ballet uniform and black pants are still in it, and with Gisa always in our bedroom, they're probably not coming out soon. I sift through the heap of clothing, hand knocking the wood of my pointe shoe, and grab the papers and pamphlet.

They're kind of crunched up, and I wince, flattening them on the table.

The papers clipped beneath, the cover of the pamphlet reads _Manhattan Dance Academy_ , with a flame, small and black, under the text. Above are nine boxes, three rows and three columns, a photograph of a separate genre of dance within each. Ballet, tap, classical ballroom . . . aerial silks dancing?

Blinking, I see why auditions for placements might have to go on all week. World-renowned indeed.

Flipping open the book, there's an introduction.

 _At the Manhattan Dance Academy, there is not a form of dance we do not teach or do not rejoice in sharing with the world._

 _~TCVI_

The Sixth? You've got to be kidding me. I should've noticed yesterday while looking at their portraits.

On the next page, there's a doctrine, explaining the Academy's origins, teachings, expectations, and ambitions.

 _Tiberias Calore the Sixth_ descends from a long line of dancers and businessmen and seeks to uphold their legacies, so he splits his time between the Academy and the headquarters of Calore Industries in lower Manhattan. Turns out the Calore family's second business is right off of Wall Street and has something to do with investments and finance. The information in the pamphlet doesn't go into further detail.

The Academy has long been under the instruction of the Calores, evolving from strictly classical ballet to a wide range of dance within the past century. As it is a _world-renowned_ company that is _paying_ men and women to dance, the owners—Tiberias and his wife, Elara Merandus—expect nothing but the very best from their students, and pride themselves on being able to create dancing prodigies.

Prodigy was the word Maven used to describe me before he found out he'd be dancing with me as his partner.

It isn't normal for seventeen-year-olds to be dancing at an elite professional level. Most start out at smaller companies, spend a few years there, before auditioning for anything remotely as large as this. Maven must be my age, Cal's a year or two older, and Evangeline and the other girls who auditioned can't be over twenty either. I've never heard of a company like this offering spots to kids just out of high school. Yet at the Academy, dancers range from eighteen to thirty-five.

Lucas said Evangeline was bred to dance for the Calores; a weird way to say it, but maybe it's true for a lot of the younger dancers.

They strive to be the best dance academy in the world, rivaling the great theatres of Europe and Russia. They want everyone to know their name. _Manhattan Dance Academy_.

I skim the rest of the pages, mostly photos from shows, and then some information about each genre taught. Opportunities that come with it and its levels.

It's a giant pyramid, with the Calores on top. There must be hundreds and hundreds of people who dance in the building, between the different genres and tiers. They also offer intensive training to tweens and teens, prepping them for when they audition right out of high school—for a price. _Ha._

The whole setup is strange, with Evangeline being _trained_ to dance for the Calores. Parents push their children to become doctors and lawyers, but not dancers. It's amazing, and I wish I was in the same situation—it would solve my problems—but it's also strange. Very strange indeed.

I brush off the thought with a low, jealous chuckle, shuffling the pamphlet to the bottom of the stack to view the papers. I ignore the instinct telling me I'm way over my head.


	15. Chapter 15

My apartment might be sad, but Kilorn's is hands-down depressing.

A few days later, I stop on the second floor of my apartment, and not bothering to knock, I let myself into my friend's apartment.

Gisa wasn't wrong: it's barren, more barren than usual.

I give his living room a look over, in case Gisa missed a note lying somewhere on his couch or table. Then I wander over to his joke of a kitchen, nothing more than a fridge, oven, and microwave, and go so far as to look in the fridge. For anything that might give me a clue.

The last time I was in his room would've been when it was his mom's, years and years ago when we'd play hide-and-go-seek around the apartment building. I enter it again, finding a bed, nightstand, and closet.

The plain sheets and comforter are crumpled back, but I find it hard to believe that Kilorn ever makes his bed. I toss his pillows onto the floor, heave his mattress up to look under it, and pull the sheets further away from the bed.

I throw open his closet door to find a dusty floor, a couple of hangers, and the rest of Kilorn's junk he elected not to take with him. A skateboard, a guitar he never should've bought, and an empty laundry basket I doubt he touches more than once per month. Among other things.

And last, I turn back on myself, returning to his bed and nighttime stand. Littered with useless knickknacks and a clock, I sift through more of his crap, looking for something, anything to give me a trail. The drawer right beneath contains a flashlight and nothing but.

Gone. He's gone.

Only now I realize that he's found them. He's not sleeping out on the street or on the subway looking for them when he could do it just as well from here. That would've been the best-case scenario, but it doesn't make sense. He's found them, and now he's gone.

It's silly to think about. The island of Manhattan is so small, and yet scouring every building in the city would take a hundred years. Not to mention the other four boroughs and Jersey City right across the Hudson.

Though Kilorn's not here and the apartment's quiet, I shut the door to his room.

And silently slink down against it, crumbling to the floor.

* * *

I've been climbing a lot of stairs lately.

This morning, when Mom and Gee were out again buying new medical provisions and groceries, I finally had the chance to roll over my dance supplies to a duffel bag, save for the shoes I keep on the roof.

Classes are in four days, and I've spent most of my time up there, playing an insane game of catch-up. Everybody thinks I leave the apartment and head downtown, but I'm usually right up there, just a few stories above. I haven't brought home money this week, diving into my savings from Wall Street to keep cash flowing onto the table. Mom and Dad have noticed the change, how I've only deposited hundreds and fifties this week, but they don't complain. We desperately need it, with my brothers unemployed and Dad struggling to keep a consistent job.

Considering what I did on Sunday, I'm good with ballet, so I've focused on the other genres I told Tiberias I used to dance in.

Up on the roof, I spend hours tapping and making up jazz combinations, hunting for weaknesses in my technique. I haven't actually performed choreography since dancing in the studio, which is highly unnerving, as I'll be dancing in advanced tap and jazz and hip hop classes next week. So I've reviewed most of my modern dancing: made sure I actually can do moves in tap shoes, rather than in socks on my bedroom floor, and loosen up and dance hip hop.

Rolling out my neck, stiff from spending another whole day dancing, I approach my apartment. My visit to Kilorn's just a moment ago was a rare reprieve in my practice, and nobody knows it better than my body. My calves and hips and ankles and everything ache.

I enter my apartment, and Mom, Dad, and Gisa are sitting in the living room, Dad in his wheelchair, covered by a blanket though it's July. Somebody left the window in the kitchen open, ushering in flesh-melting heat. Tramy and Bree are nowhere in sight, and it's just me, my sister, and my parents in our shabby _house_.

Closing the door, I say, "Dang. Any of you go outside today?" Mom had the day off, and the chances of Dad or my siblings going out are low, yet I ask anyway just for something to say.

But as the lock clicks into place and I make for a spot at the empty chair, each of the members of my family turns their heads from the wall ahead to me, gawking at me, a puzzle to be solved. Out of the three, Gisa looks the most concerned, fiddling with the braid Mom did. She can't do it herself with her wrist _situation_.

Something happened. Something's wrong, by their faces.

My first thought is Tramy and Bree are missing, and for a heartbeat, I imagine Mom and Dad telling me my brothers have left, gone to wherever Shade is.

But with a glance, the door to their bedroom is closed. They're probably lying on their beds in there, trying to catch a break from the heat.

"What is it?" I ask, taking a step towards them. I feel awkward in front of my family, the three of them not daring to say what's on their minds. I can fake a smile in front of an audience, but I struggle here, not knowing what to say or do. "Is this about Kilorn?" I think fast; a pause will give me away. "Did you find out where he is?"

A half-guess. The pit of my stomach wonders if it's something else, if they found out about the Academy.

The TV buzzes in the background, but I can't see the screen from here and the volume's too quiet. An untouched bowl of pretzels lingers on the table in front of the couch where Gee and Mom sit. Even without the heat, I could cut the tension in the air with a butter knife.

"What's wrong?" I ask again. Another step. Whatever they're meaning to tell me, clearly they didn't plan on how to say it. Mom and Dad exchange a look, and my sister bites her lip.

Gisa speaks up. "I wasn't snooping, I promise," she says, and I raise my brows. A chat starting this way can't be good. "I went under your bed for some colored pencils. You used to keep art supplies under there, I figured you still might. I wanted to work on coordination with my hand."

She found my duffel bag full of dance supplies. There's nothing else under there but a bunch of discarded books and clothes inside storage containers. I don't bother telling her I threw my art supplies away years ago. "And?" I ask, playing it off as nothing. It's not strange to hold onto them, though my parents wanted me to throw them out long ago for solace. _Not a big deal_.

Dad keeps his eyes trained on the TV now, though the dullness in them tells me he's not paying attention. It was always him who kept his mouth shut at the table when I'd gush about class or a competition. A silent protest. He doesn't speak now either.

"You still have your old dance stuff," Mom says at last. "Not to mention a leotard and a pair of pointe shoes I don't remember buying for you."

I try to walk, perch myself on the nearby chair I had intended to sit on, instead of standing at the door. Clearly apart from my family three-to-one, I'm riveted in place, my thighs leaden and my feet nailed to the floor. Yes, I've kept my dance shoes, and it was meant to be a secret until the day I die—it would mortify me if they knew I practiced in them. _Not a big deal_.

Yet if I started shoplifting, not for necessity but for pleasure, my parents would have none of it. They'll tell me I've gone too far, that this is the last straw.

This is a confrontation.

She thinks I shoplifted the new shoes and leotard for shits and giggles. Because I'm just some stupid teenager who can't get her head out of the clouds and realize that dance is over.

I would've agreed with her last week. Maybe even thrown those shoes out myself.

In spite of the heat, my skin feels cold, verging on goosebumps.

"We thought you were over this, Mare," Dad chimes in at last, and I will myself to be composed. This will be the first time—in well, forever—that he's told me aloud how he feels about me and my little hobby.

I try to look at my father with impassive, willing eyes. He barely holds my gaze.

"It was fine when you were little and when I was working, but after this winter . . ." he trails off, and I don't already want to hear more. "If you're practicing on your own . . . it's a waste of your time, to tell you the truth. I'm sorry. But you can't steal these things from stores. You can't pickpocket random people off the streets."

There it is. The disapproval Dad's been holding onto for so long, always on his face but never on his lips.

"I didn't . . ." _steal them_. "I didn't . . ." _steal them_. _A very rich family gave them to me, along with a job as an elite dancer for their company. Didn't you look in the side pocket of the bag? Didn't you see the papers?_

A waste of time that's amounted to dozens and dozens of hours. I've danced in my room every day since I quit, and they think I'm wasting my time. The irony of Gisa finding my shoes and leotard days after I landed myself a position at the Manhattan Dance Academy is too much, and I want to fall to the floor and burst out laughing. And crying.

"I—"

"You're almost eighteen," Mom says gently. I almost think she's going to rise up from her seat on the couch to give me a rub on the shoulder and a hug, but she stays firmly rooted, as do I. "It's not too late to go back to school or get your GED. This pickpocketing and shoplifting . . . isn't safe or right."

Like safety or rightness has ever mattered before. Before Gisa's wrist, before this, my parents hardly said a word about the money I brought in, even if it made Dad feel horrible that he couldn't do it himself and tempted Mom to pull more hours. They never objected because they _needed_ it. They still do, whether they like it or not.

It takes all of my will not to snap those very thoughts at them. To call them hypocrites for what they've allowed.

As for high school . . . no way I'd go back. There's nothing that hellhole could offer me, and a missing semester in my transcript makes it just about useless. I don't know what I ever would've gone to college for, what college would've wanted me in the first place.

"I'm not going back to school," I say a bit coldly. "It would be a waste of my time." I find it in me to cross my arms, repeat the words Dad used. _Waste of your time_.

From the couch, Mom stares me down, but it's hardly effective. Not when Mom's a high school graduate, and she's still wearing her maid's uniform and her greying hair in a sad ponytail.

I return Mom's stare, the woman who's given her life for me and her other four children. The bags under her eyes and wrinkles on her hands say it well enough, too. All those checks, all those tight smiles, and _don't worry about its_ every month. She taught me how to bun and pony my hair, how to do my stage makeup, stitched the stupid rips I'd get in my costumes when I was too rough on them.

My rock, even if I hate admitting that I needed her more than the teachers at my studio.

Dad hasn't seen me dance in years; I couldn't have been older than twelve when he last saw me at my recital. From then on he made up excuses, saying that he wasn't feeling well or that the competitions and recitals were too loud for him. I doubt I'll ever understand why he was so against going, spending a couple of damn hours on me. Maybe he just didn't care enough.

"Fine," Dad grumbles. He's getting pissed off, done with this conversation. "Get a job, then."

My focus shifts to him, but my eyes aren't as clear as before.

 _I got a job. And then a second one_.

That's not what I say. "And what about dance?" I ask. They won't understand what I mean by it.

Mom and Dad stare blankly at me. Gisa examines her wrist.

"What about it?" Dad asks.

"Did you ever think I was any good?" The question comes out blunt, like I'm not consumed by knowing the answer.

Dad opens his mouth, but Mom cuts him off with a sharp, "Daniel."

" _Ruth,_ " he says anyway.

They've discussed this before. If my classes were worth it, if the money was _worth it_. Because it's common knowledge that dancers who go to dinky, rundown studios never go anywhere with their talent. They would've pulled me sooner if they had the chance, the balls _to take away the one thing I was ever good at_.

"We haven't seen you dance in years, Mare," Dad says. He speaks slowly, pushing away his annoyance as if I'm some kind of wild animal who will bite if he shows the slightest sign of agitation.

I nod my head, agreeing with him. " _You_ haven't, Dad. You haven't seen me dance since I was twelve years old." I spit the words with venom. "Mom missed my last two competitions for work, but otherwise, she was _there_." I take a breath to steady myself. I feel like I'm about to fall into the door. "I would've performed a solo at the recital, you know. It was going to be the opening act, and I would've begged you to come."

Tears burn in my eyes. I don't back down, though, staring at them with all the intensity, all the blame in the world. I performed the solo on Sunday, in front of a crowd of eight-hundred, and my family will never know it. They wouldn't believe me if I told them. A wild, wild fantasy of mine, they'd say. I'm not sure if the papers would be evidence enough.

"Why does it matter?" Dad barks, giving up the calm pretense again. I half-expect him to rise out of his chair in anger, though it's impossible. "Did you really believe you had a shot at becoming a professional dancer? People like us . . . we're not meant to be stars, honey.

"We're meant to work for a living and expect food and shelter in return. Shoplifting shoes, practicing in your room, isn't changing that."

It wasn't just the money, but also a bone-deep doubt and lack of faith. It was a hobby to them and a passion for me. A way of life. Another piece of my heart cracks off.

Though Mom doesn't say anything, though Mom always did my hair . . . she feels the same.

My mouth quirks into a frown, and I decide against telling them the truth. No, they wouldn't believe me in the first place. My position at the Academy might last a very short amount of time anyway.

But Cal believes I can do this. So do the others, even if they don't say it. My family would too if they could see me.

"Your father means he wants you to have a safe, decent life, Mare," Mom amends, trying to fix Dad's harshness. They keep using my name while they talk to me and I can't stand it. "You loved to dance, but it's not possible anymore. So it's best if you try to let go."

 _You never supported me,_ I want to say.

With two sisters, two dreams, they could only make an exception for one. They had no problem letting Gisa contine sewing, deeming it practical and something she could actually make a living out of. Looking over at Gee, I can't bring myself to blame her, but I find the opposite is true of my parents.

Maybe they don't deserve to know.

Over a decade of backbreaking training and relentless practice, and never once did Mom or Dad consider that _maybe_ was good enough. Mom saw too, and yet she was resolute when they sat me down. Dad didn't bother to think twice, more concerned about money than anything. Never bothering to ask me how I felt, though he certainly heard an earful of it.

A new plan begins forming.

"Fine. Shoplifting shoes won't change that," I whisper, acquiescing. "I won't steal from now on. I'll land a job, and then I'll grow up."

Mom raises her brows, surprised. Dad's face is unreadable.

I shrug, the picture of rationale and understanding. "I'm almost eighteen. You're right."

Not. Right.

"We're looking out for you," Mom says, pressing her lips together. "We want you to be happy, sweetie." I almost sense guilt in her voice.

"I know," I say, not believing myself. My legs feel less heavy and the nails come out of my feet, and I walk across the room convinced I'm going to vomit. "Thanks, Gee, by the way, for ratting me out." I glare at my sister.

"Mom walked in on me," Gisa mutters.

"We'll see you for dinner?" Mom asks, motherly-worry coating her tone.

Everybody's least favorite time of the day. Dinner, when we all make the most painful small talk you've ever seen out of thin air, taking second servings just as an excuse to get up from the table—if only for a moment.

"Yes," I state, monotone, walking the rest of the distance to my room and slamming my bedroom door behind me.

* * *

The scene switches in an instant, going from loud and accusing to quiet and small. My bedroom looks the same as always, yet something changed. Something changed in this entire apartment.

The open bag is fully exposed, pulled out between my bed and Gisa's. My brand-new pair of pointe shoes sits at the top, incriminating, but sure enough, the side pocket holding the Academy's papers is untouched. Why Gisa felt the need to look in my bag for colored pencils doesn't click; she must've been curious, recognizing it from the family closet where we store our extra junk.

As much as I need to, I don't slink down against my bedroom door and sob my eyes out. I already did that once today for Kilorn.

I lift the large bag up onto my bed, assessing what I'll be able to bring with me.

The shoes and dance clothes don't take up a lot of space, and I stuff shirt after shirt inside, bending a drawer lower for pants. Two pairs of jeans, leggings, some shorts . . . I go to the top drawer, pulling out my underwear and socks and bras, shoving them into another side pocket of my bag.

I've never collected knickknacks or security objects, so I look around my room and find nothing else worth bringing with me, besides for a family photograph tucked under the clock on my nightstand. I'll have to stop at a drugstore to buy toothpaste and a brush, along with soap and some other hygiene products.

Ripping a sheet of paper from out of Gisa's stray notebook, formerly used for drawing up designs, a pencil lying beside it, I write my family a note:

 _An opportunity has presented itself, and I have to chase it. I'm sorry if you don't understand. I'll send money, and I promise I'll come visit soon._

Outside my room, Dad's turned up the TV volume and Mom's bustling away in the kitchen, but I still mind my noise. I leave the note on my bed and zip my duffel bag.

I heave it out the window and climb over the barrier myself, pushing the window shut before I hurry up the fire escape to go and retrieve my other shoes.

* * *

It's almost seven o'clock when I reach the Academy and find Lucas guarding its front door.

"Moving in so soon?" he asks, nodding at my bag. The sun's beginning to dip below the taller buildings, tossing the streets into shadows. It's still in the mid-eighties, though, and my forehead sweats under my baseball cap.

"Yes," I return, trying to be calm. "My apartment's too far away for the travel to be worth it."

It was never about distance.

It's dinnertime at home, and I'm not there. They've found the note by now, no better than the goodbye Shade gave our family. Mom's crying, Gisa's on the verge of tears, and Dad's brooding. My brothers have come out of their room to find out what the commotion's over; they act like it's _no big deal_ , but inside, their hearts are beating a little too fast.

Maybe I'm naive and idiotic, but I couldn't let this chance go. So I wrote my family a note explaining what I was doing in as few words as possible, not entirely making sense.

Lucas moves towards the door. His eyes are sympathetic as if he knows what happened. My stage face must not be very good tonight.

"Come on. I'll set you up."


	16. Chapter 16

_Impulsive._

The word has clung to me since the moment I woke up in my hotel-like room, and clings to me still, over the bellowing music of the auditorium.

Lucas and I stopped at an office in charge of room management to get my key before heading up further to the tenth story. Then, my escort unlocked one of its cookie-cutter doors after walking down a hallway and turning. Handing me the key, he said a "good night," pulled the door shut after him, and left me to my own devices.

The room, which I cleaned somewhere along the line, was of little interest to me last night. I chose sleep, rather than exploring and unpacking, slumping into a generously-sized queen bed as soon as I got my shoes off. Its white sheets and pillows were too soft and its comforter too thick, even with the air conditioning.

This morning I bothered with unpacking, setting out my small collection of pharmacy-store toiletries on the bathroom counter and folding my clothes in a dresser. Even then, I didn't look at the appliances in the kitchen, which I'll have to buy food for; or out the window; or what channels were on the television in the living room.

Instead of watching TV, I went through my pointe exercises in the living room, pushing a chair out of my way. I showered and dragged myself out in search of breakfast. As much as I didn't want to, I had to eat.

After, I came here. To the auditorium.

Up several rows down the center are Cal, his father, and four hip hop teachers, heads tilted to decide the dancers' fates. I wouldn't know who they were if not for the lack of people surrounding the five, none ahead and none behind for several rows. The black hair of Cal and Tiberias blend right into the air.

The back doors are open, light pouring in. The theatre itself is less crowded than it was on Sunday, the hype of the auditions having died off. At best, a third of the seats are filled, and I'm glad I was able to find a spot without many around me. I still wear my cap as a precaution.

Today they're testing the hip hop dancers, each of their outfits straying wildly from the standard ballet uniform I wore to my performance. The girl currently onstage is all colors, wearing a pair of orange shoes, forest-green leggings, and a baggy violet jacket. They play music for the hip hop auditions, which I don't find particularly fair, though her dance is syncopated and fast compared to mine.

The beat is psychedelic and fun, and she has the audience—including me—clapping along. The girl sells her performance, flipping and jumping and twisting, bending her arms and legs in ways ballerinas never do. Her merry grin and ease of motion stir jealousy in me, and I promise myself I'll review some more modern dance this afternoon.

Auditions at the Academy are . . . unusual. There were all sorts of dancers out in the lobby when Ann and I walked past them on our way backstage, but this morning's auditions are strictly hip hop. I snatched a program from a stand by the doors to decipher their schedule, and it seems Sunday was reserved for hopeful newbies—who, turns out, have to be invited here to audition by the Academy's scouts—every two hours shifting from one genre to the next. Monday through Friday has been for veterans of the Academy, for teachers to review their students' progress and decide if they should be moved up—or in a rare case, demoted.

Monday was ballet, Tuesday was tap, Wednesday was contemporary with aerial silks at the end, Thursday was a mix of ballroom, and Friday is hip hop and jazz.

How much of the week have Cal and his family spent in here? Though I could never be sure, I doubt Cal knows anything about ballroom dancing or aerial silks. I stifle a laugh at the thought of seeing _that_. And though he's the Academy's owner, Tiberias can't be an expert in everything either. Elara's gone, and for all I know, Tiberias and his son are just sitting up there and watching with the actual hip hop teachers. As much as everything about this place intrigues me, I can't imagine spending six days straight trapped in an auditorium. The dances surely blur together.

The track ends, and the girl bows and exits to the left-wing.

 _I was impulsive_.

Viewing the performances helps, but not enough for me to stop wondering about my family. I should've told them, screamed it in their faces that I finally made it, that I had won for once, but I left them a measly note instead. A note. I was too poisoned with anger to be sensible, to do my best to explain it to them, use every bit of evidence in my possession to _make them_ believe me. If only to see the surprise on their faces, to prove them all wrong.

But at the same time, the idea was too good to ignore in the moment. When I was in the living room, doing my best not to cry while I felt so ganged up upon, I recalled what I read in the pamphlet.

 _Corps de Ballet, soloist, and Principal dancers have first claim to our complimentary suites, situated on the tenth and eleventh stories of our property._

Technically, my family might file a missing person's report, have the police track me down and return me home. I'm four months from eighteen. But deep down, I don't think they will; it was fear holding me back, another excuse like Cal said. My family likes the police about as much as I do, and they won't go to them, not anymore. I might've left in a way no better than Shade, but they have no reason to think I left for drugs or a gang.

It's the most selfish thing I've ever done. I snapped and broke at my parents' words, and there was nothing more inviting than the open air—humid as it was—pulling at me from outside my bedroom window.

I'll go back, as soon as my new life has settled down at the Academy and my family's had time to cool off. I'll take the subway to my apartment, walk up its stairs, and knock on the door. I'll give my family five tickets to my first show, making it—

Maven Calore takes a seat next to me with stiff posture.

Almost jumping out of my seat and certainly jumping from my daydreaming, I blink at him, wordless.

I didn't see him walk in, though in my defense, there was hardly time to. I sit in the middle section of the theatre, three seats in from the aisle so I don't block a couple's view a few rows behind me. Maven came from my blind spot, probably from the back doors.

Even if he had walked down an entire row, I wouldn't have noticed him. Lost because of my thoughts and problems, as is the usual.

I can't imagine how stupid I look, staring at Maven like I'm expecting him to spit at me. "Hi?" I say, my voice buckling.

He doesn't say anything at first, his eyes flickering from me to the stage. Maven taps a finger on his knee and takes a breath. "Hi," he returns.

The air in my throat goes heavy. Why is he here? _To inform me of the bad news, of him successfully convincing his father to wash his hands of me_. I tell myself no; Maven wouldn't be here if they were getting rid of me, he'd have somebody else do it.

Then _why_ is he here? To get to know me? I can hardly believe it, after his reaction in Tiberias's office. I wouldn't call him outright-disgusted, but he wasn't pleased with the idea of dancing with me. Maybe to persuade me into leaving, or getting a different partner, or—

"I wanted to apologize," Maven states quietly.

The way he says it makes my heart beat faster. "You did?" I ask, sounding too surprised.

In the background, a dancer comes onto the stage. I pay her no heed, my attention pinned to the ice in Maven's eyes.

He nods slowly. "Will you walk with me?"

I nod, only because saying no would be outright-rude. "Sure."

My legs refuse to straighten, but Maven takes the lead. I push from my chair with great effort, shimmying out of the row.

We head up the aisle, music blasting from the speakers the only sound. I refuse to walk behind Maven, so I match his pace, taking extra strides.

He's a wraith in the darkened theatre, black hair and shirt, but his shorts are tan. I've spent little time around Maven, but he seems better suited in the clothes I met him in, very similar to Cal's workout pants and plain shirt. I always find it weird for dancers to wear street clothes, though I do it myself, having worn a leotard just once this summer.

An attendant at the door eyes me so quickly I almost miss it and gives Maven a curt smile, and my partner and I step out into the sunlight.

Maven stops us in the middle of the room, holding a hand out for me to shake. "Maven Calore. I'd like to introduce myself properly, instead of having my father do it for me. I'm sorry about what happened in the office, I was just . . . surprised, that's all."

A dozen or so dancers loiter in the lobby, chatting and gossiping amongst themselves. None of them pay Maven or I any attention, and I'm glad for it. Otherwise, the space is uncharacteristically empty.

I search his face for a moment, looking for the lie and the scheme. But his blue eyes are nothing but honest and transparent, and his face is too . . . young for me to think he's plotting something here. If I look quick enough, I could mistake him for Cal, though when I _really_ look at him, I see the differences, aside from the obvious: a sharply angled jaw; hair with the slightest curl to it; icy, yet kind eyes.

His hand stays held out the entire time, and I finally crack and take it. Could it really be that simple?

His hand is smoother, stronger than I would've guessed. "Mare Barrow. Don't worry about it. I was as shocked as you were." It's said with humor and humor alone, not infected with anything negative.

Since Maven is playing nice, which I wasn't exactly expecting, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

He huffs a laugh, eyes going wide. As though to say, _yeah, quite the shock_. "I just thought I'd have somewhat of a say in who became my partner for the season, and when my father threw it in my face, I didn't react the way I should've." I almost expect him to start apologizing again.

I smile at him. "I get that. You've probably been spending all summer with some of those girls, and I just . . . _fell_ into the mix." Since we've come this far, asking him if he'd like me to talk to someone about getting a new partner seems unwise, if even possible.

He makes a face at my awful pun, probably thinking of the Sunday's blur. "Your fall was the most horrifying thing I've ever seen. If it makes you feel better, they're adding a beam up there this weekend."

That damned gap in the rafters has to be about the stupidest design flaw in this entire building. It has no purpose, nor could you see it from half of the beams up there. I stiffen as I relive the moment that felt like an eternity, as my foot found thin air and the other snagged on the lights and I saw the brand of _Calore Dance Academy_ thirty feet below, vivid and dark.

My face heats, and I look at the floor to mask a blush. "Wonderful," I mutter, mostly to myself. "It was embarrassing, more than physically painful. But the dance was worth it."

When I manage to bring my eyes up again from the marble, Maven's looking at me thoughtfully.

That look makes me think that being his partner won't be bad at all.

"What?" I ask lightheartedly when he doesn't say anything, tilting his head.

Chuckling, shaking his head now, Maven says, "You should've seen my mother's face while she watched your dance."

Elara Merandus. From the one time I've met her, which seems like more than enough, I've decided she's a stone-cold bitch. Hearing Maven talk about her though, I decide to say nothing.

"It was so obvious, once you came out, with the way you held yourself. My mom's one of the leading ballet mistresses, and she knew what was coming, along with me and the others. Cal apparently foresaw it, but even he was moved by your insufferable little head jerk. As for the rest of the crowd . . . yeah." Another laugh.

The silence and the applause. Yeah, I remember that too. Part of me still wonders why clapped; if they were genuinely impressed or felt obligated to.

"And?" I ask, folding my arms. Maven isn't as tall as Cal is, but he doesn't fail in towering over me. "Are they scared of me or something?"

"Of the girl who could sue this place if she tried hard enough?" Maven raises a brow. "Not scared, but intimidated, I'd say. I don't know if anybody's told you, but you're pretty good."

I roll my eyes, even as I tuck the compliment away.

"My parents, on the other hand, might be scared. It turns out it's rather hard to cover up a maid's fall from faulty stage rafters in front of an entire theatre."

His words strike me, and I might take them the wrong way. "So they gave me this part to shut me up," I muse, biting my lip.

But Maven quickly corrects himself. "Not at all," he says, his words like a thousand pounds. His stare's heavy too. "They'd be fools to turn you away, legal liability or no. If you had auditioned like all the other girls, you'd still be here." He points to the floor for emphasis. "They threw in the not pressing charges or taking it to the press part as frosting on the cake, in addition to gaining one of the best teen dancers they've ever taught. What are you, seventeen?

I relax a little. It's nice to hear it from another person's mouth when my parents shaved off a decent amount of my confidence last night. "Yeah," I admit, rolling my eyes at what I have to say next. "I dropped out of school last semester, otherwise I'd be entering my senior year."

Maven's brows knit together, but there's no judgment in the action. I glance around the lobby, but still, nobody pays attention to us.

"I'm seventeen, too," he says, stuffing hands in his pockets. For everything the two of us are, Maven's found a similarity. He heads to the revolving door, walking backward to face me. "Anyway. I thought we'd redo our first meeting and forget what happened in my father's office. Unless you're busy today, I could take you to buy some new dance clothes."

"Shopping?" I blurt, my turn to crunch my eyebrows. So much for Maven being an inhospitable partner, with this new side of him emerging from the near-silent boy I met not a week ago.

Maven shrugs. "That's what girls like, right?" He's almost to the door now.

Bold of him to assume I like shopping. Though I haven't actually _been_ shopping in a long time, sticking to thrift stores and stealing Gee's clothes from her once in a while. "I already have dance supplies, and there's nothing else I'm in desperate urge of. Thank you, but—"

Maven cuts me off with a disbelieving tilt of his head. He speaks louder with the distance separating us. "Really? Your shoes fit perfectly? None of your tights have holes? We wreck dance supplies like wildfire, and if your supplies are in perfect shape, they won't be by the end of the first month. Let's go. I'm buying."

If I needed new clothes, I'd just use some of my Wall Street funds I brought with me. Not his money.

I huff a breath and make to plant my feet, but Maven's starting through the door, and I follow after him. He's hit right on the mark about my shoes, a tad smaller than comfortable. Every single pair of my tights is fraying or else has rips tearing up the thighs.

I push past the revolving doors, Maven waiting for me.

We're two rocks in a stream on the street, people flowing around us in a volley of color and voices. Somebody bumps me in the shoulder as I stare at Maven, his eyes matching the blue of skyscrapers. God, why are his eyes so blue?

Speaking first, I say, "You're right. My stock of dance clothes and shoes is pathetic, but I can buy those things for myself. I don't know if you've heard, but I have a job now, better pay than maids receive." I wink to mask my seriousness. I don't want to rely on Maven or anybody else to spend money on me when I have a salary in my future. It's a matter of pride, and it would kill me for Maven, of the Calore variety, to take me shopping.

"You would've died if not for a rope, and nobody's acknowledging it," Maven says gently, stepping under the marquee to escape the torrent of pedestrians. It's nearly lunch hour, making the streets extra-awful.

"My family gave you a job, but you would've deserved it had you auditioned normally. You're my partner, now, and I don't mind. I can get to know you, and you can get to know me. I'm well-off, so it's no problem, Mare."

I swallow against my instincts. "Where are we going?"

Maven grins, showing off his teeth. "I have a few places in mind."

* * *

"Really?" I ask, dodging Maven as he tries to shove leotards into my hands for me to try on. "I need ten? I have three back in my room."

I pass between two racks brimming with leotards, Maven close behind. "It's up to you. Depends how often you want to wash your clothes."

Turning to him, I use both of my hands to grab the hangers he's begun putting on his wrists, having run out of space on his elbows, leggings slung on them. "You look ridiculous. Don't they have baskets here?"

Here. Our first stop of the day, according to Maven. We walked uptown half a mile for what has to be the largest dance shop in New York: warmly illuminated by beams of lights—comparable to the ones in the rafters of a stage, but less harsh—with windows flaunting the theatre district outside. The walls are creamy, and the floor's a light brown color. Pop music plays quietly in the background.

The clothes . . . oh, the clothes. I've never penned myself for a girly-girl, content with my thrifted outfits and barren closet. But something awakened in me the second Maven and I walked in, having come up a flight of stairs and down a hallway.

I'm holding onto my sense, for the sake of Maven's credit card.

There's a wall of shoes, types of dance shoes I've never seen before. The white and grey racks and tables are endless, stuffed with leotards, others with leggings, or shorts, or ballet skirts . . . I won't go on. Mannequins decorate the store throughout, wearing all manner of dancing clothes. Packages of tights are on another wall, about every color you could want somewhere along it.

"I think a cart would be preferable," Maven says, looking at a sign posted on a nearby table. "Look. Twenty-percent off."

"Wow," I say sarcastically, shaking my head at Maven. I scuff my foot against the floor, a ceiling light reflecting off it, and I let a laugh loose. "Do you want to find a cart? I'm going to try this stuff on."

Maven dumps the pairs of leggings onto the growing heap between my arms and brushes his hands together, heading to the front of the store. "I'd go with ten," he calls over his shoulder.

I roll my eyes for the dozenth time, but I weave in and out of the displays for the opposite way of Maven, to the dressing rooms near the checkout. The soft, fresh material of the leotards presses into my skin, and the scent of new clothes overwhelms my nose. Maven and I have accumulated somewhere around twenty items for me to try on—I'll likely be lying to my shopping partner about how many I _actually_ try on.

The last hour has led me to believe that I have nothing to fear from being Maven's partner. In fact, based on our interactions, I think I should be looking forward to it. He told me about himself on our walk, how he takes summer classes at Columbia University and does online during the school year to manage dance. He and his brother apprentice at their father's business on Sundays; in a decade or two, Cal will inherit the company.

Lastly, Maven is a fan of classic literature, and baseball, I learned when he poked at my ball cap and asked what the hell a Mets' logo was doing on it. Out of my two caps, I wore the interesting one today. He's a Yankees fan, to my dismay.

I enter an ample-sized dressing room, dropping my heap of neutral-colored clothing onto the bench. Before I take my current clothes off, I sort the heap, removing an off-brown leotard with a red tint to it. There's a half-chance Maven's found all these things walking around blind.

The leotard goes to the back-on-the-rack hook, and I remove my shoes, athletic shorts, and shirt to slip into the first of many leotards.

Once in it, the price tag literally itches against my skin. I resist the temptation of sneaking a glance at it.

Without tights, it's passable for a black swimsuit, a scooped neckline and a low back. I swivel around myself, smoothing out a wrinkle in the fabric. Simple. I like it.

Slinking out of it, I return the leotard to its hanger and place it on the bench.

So begins a very long process.

* * *

"Let's do five leotards and three pairs of leggings," I tell Maven, who loiters near the checkout, typing into his phone. A metal basket is set next to his feet, as promised.

"Your loss." He tucks his phone into a pocket, gesturing at the basket. "They don't have carts. Sorry."

"No, your loss." I kneel to put a significantly smaller pile of clothes in the basket. "You're going to have to carry another one soon." I pick up the basket at my feet, moving towards the wall of shoes I can't help but ogle at. "Shoes?"

"That's the spirit."

We cut between tables, my fingers brushing up against athletic shirts and tank tops along the way. I'll have to come back and look at those . . .

My shoe collection is depressing, to say the least. My feet haven't grown in the last year, but I swear my pointe shoes have shrunk, and I managed to put a hole through a pair of jazz shoes. My taps, the same model Cal's worn, are scuffed beyond recognition, having been at the end of their lifespan amidst my final weeks at the studio.

Pants and leotards are one thing, but I find dance shoes . . . empowering. Pointe shoes allow you to stand on the tips of your toes and tapping makes sounds your feet could never manage alone. It'll be nice to have new things, things I don't associate with my room where my clothes were hidden for months.

I stop in front of the wall. "What do I need?" I ask Maven, who scans it. Each model of shoe is positioned on top of a transparent plastic strip, clipped onto paneling. And there must be seventy different types, between the ballet—pointe and flat—jazz, tap, sneakers, and heeled shoes. Most are black or pink, but one of the sneakers is pink, blue, and yellow, and a pair of golden heels sparkles to the right.

"It depends on what classes you're in. Some of our teachers have specific dress codes, but . . ." He reaches past me for the tap shoe Cal's been misusing, with a chunky silver heel and a black body. "Go with this for tap."

Maven offers it to me, though it's several sizes too big. "I have these ones, but you're right. They're kind of beat up." By beat up, I mean they're wrecked, screws holding the metal ready to fall off. "Tell me." I hit the heel against my hand, metal on skin. "Does your brother wear tap shoes everywhere he goes? Because it's annoying."

I swear, no sound is worse than the sound of metal on marble, though Cal seems to enjoy it while it grates on my very being.

"You saw him up in the rafters," Maven acknowledges. "Not usually, no. He was in a rush, I guess, trying to cram in a tap practice, and didn't want to walk around in socks."

Maven smiles to himself, but he catches me looking. "I slightly outmatch Cal in tap," he explains. "He knows it too and spends a lot of his free time trying to fix it."

"That's funny," I say, not meaning it. I haven't gotten over the _you haven't missed much, and your brother scored in your place_ line. He might be younger, not quite as skillful, but I still . . ."What are you, two years younger than him? He can dance all day, and you still have to do school."

"Yup." Maven shifts, picking up a black jazz shoe. Just by the way he turns his shoulders ever-so-slightly, I know I've hit a fragile nerve. He goes on anyway. "I'm good, but Cal's great. The curse of being the younger sibling: I'll always be in my big brother's shadow."

 _Ouch_. Cal's little brother, his shadow, just admitted a truth I can't admit to myself half the time. I take a few steps towards the column of ballet shoes, where Maven turns a ballet slipper over in his hand.

"We'll have someone help us find the right size," he says, pointing a thumb at the three aisles of shoe boxes behind me. He opens his mouth to say more about the shoes, probably, but I interrupt him.

"Believe me. I get it, feeling you don't compare to your brother. My sister . . ." I trail off, swallowing. I inspect the tap shoe's laces, but not seeing them. "She's younger than me, but it's no secret at home my parents favor her." The words fall out of my mouth, fast and fluent. They remind me of my family and Gisa's red hair. Gisa, who has a room all to herself now. "She's a seamstress and I'm a dancer, and according to my parents, sewing's realistic and dance isn't."

It doesn't sound valid when I'm Maven Calore's partner at the Manhattan Dance Academy, but it's the whole and utter truth.

Maven's thoughts are similar, his lips twisting into a scowl. "How could they not support you? You're a professional dancer . . . they don't support you?" He says it softer the second time.

"Because they don't know," I say simply, no more dramatic than telling him his shirt is black or the sky is blue. Maven becomes concerned very quickly, his brows raising an inch up his forehead and eyes widening. I go on, pacing to help my anxiety. "They never even knew I got a job. They've never been supportive, and yesterday, dance came up in a conversation, things were said . . . at that point, I had no interest in telling them about the Academy."

On our walk here, I mentioned that I had moved in last night, having decided my apartment was too far away. But Maven's also told me things, and I know he's smart enough to put two and two together.

"So you . . ."

"Ran away?" I nod and drift to the end of the shoe display. I'll be forging a lot of signatures in the coming days, between the papers releasing me to live at the Academy to my employment contract. I have to keep on hoping my parents won't get the police involved in this.

For the first time all day, Maven's at a loss for words. I doubt he could ever imagine such a thing happening to himself, rich boy and all—no offense to Maven; I've decided he's not that bad for who his parents are. If he or his brother went missing, no doubt the NYPD would be all over it in an instant, considering what happened with the company the Street Fighters attacked.

I continue when his silence lasts, though he never fails to listen. "I couldn't," I whisper, our arms almost touching now. "Couldn't stay there for a second longer, but I didn't know how I could tell them either." I nearly mention Shade to him, how my family will be fine since this isn't the first time a member has left.

"I'm sorry," he says. "It's not fair. Not at all."

No. It's not. A lot of things in life aren't at all fair.

"It's okay. I left a note, and I'll go back soon enough. I just need . . . just need the space to get used to this. This is good for me. Thank you," I say, sweeping a hand at the racks around the store. I feel so privileged, so special compared to my life a week ago. I've continued to refrain from sneaking glances at the price tags, and I honestly don't want to know what the grand total will be.

Maven doesn't care about the money, has no reason to, yet he's proven thus far to be a decent guy. I don't mind spending the day with him, getting to know somebody I'll be dancing with for who knows how long.

"Do you want to try on shoes now?" he asks, and I nearly hug him for changing the subject so gracefully. "They have more somewhere, too, if you care."

I settle down on a bench off to the side of the wall, the tiniest smile inching onto my face. "I didn't think I had a choice."


	17. Chapter 17

"Don't even think about telling me how much money you spent today," I say to Maven on the block before the Academy, too many bags between my fingers and on my forearms.

Maven too, carries my bags, two or three for himself but the rest for me. He smiles at my comment, bumping me playfully on the shoulder. "You know what I'm going to say."

I do, only because he's repeated himself ten times already today, as have I.

After buying eight pairs of dance shoes among other products from the first store, I knew all too well what Maven was going to say at every stop following that. It started with the leotards this morning, continued into the shoe section, and then far into the afternoon. He told me to get whatever I thought I might need, whatever I might _want_ , at each store we went to. I told him I didn't want extra, frivolous things, that he shouldn't be spending so much of his family's money on me, though I had agreed to go out with him knowing what I was getting into.

Sighing, I say, "I know. That it's fine; it hardly matters. You're happy to do it, and I need new things anyway." I scowl at him.

My words are a collection of the arguments he's given me throughout the day. Wherever he's held a credit card, whether it be at a checkout or the table for the late lunch we ate, he's said those things to me over and over. And I've continually rolled my eyes at him and worn a doubtful smirk all day long.

Surveying the colorful and dull, plastic and paper bags, I'd guess the Calores lost somewhere around two-thousand dollars to their new dancer, but I could be off by a few hundred. I have to trust Maven when he's said his father won't care. Otherwise, my heart starts to beat a little fast at the thought of a fight between Maven and his father, myself in the middle of it.

In all honesty, I'm surprised at myself for being able to thoughtfully spend so much money in a single day. Our initial stop at that crazy dance emporium was easily where I racked up the most debt to Maven—sometime during our adventures today, I clarified that he didn't expect me to pay him back—between the leotards, tights, shoes, and a couple pairs of warmup pants.

We ate lunch and continued for a regular shoe store, where Maven coerced me into buying new Converse after looking down at my old ones. The rest is a blur of leg warmers and ballet skirts, a variety of pants and shirts, and a pack of hair ties found throughout five different stores, capped off by a custom pointe shoe fitting in a shop edging into southern Manhattan. Soon enough, I'll be blowing through four, five pairs of those suckers a week.

"Exactly. And fine, if you insist: I won't tell you how much I spent."

We stop at the end of the block, the Academy the first building on the next. An angry red hand scowls at us on the crosswalk's other side, one of the millions of the lights in the city. The day's come and gone, giving into another night. The lights are glaring, coming from buildings and electric billboards, and it's strange, being this deep in the city instead of watching it from afar.

A dozen others gather at the beginning of the crosswalk, talking loudly in their own groups. The city isn't just bright, but it's also noisy. Very noisy indeed, much louder than I recall it being the last time I was in the thick of it at night years ago.

Though I try my hardest to hold onto my slippery anger for Maven's wealth—not Maven, but his money—it's easy to let it go, or at least neglect it for a while when I'm here, in the glittering and shiny street with these happy and loud people. I wish I didn't, but I love it: the organized chaos a bustling city brings. I almost feel like a tourist now that it's nighttime, with my hoard of bags and a set of eyes unable to stay focused on something for more than a few seconds.

But I still don't like the bags.

The light's stuck on red, and I tap my foot, unsure of what else to do. The bags continue to be a weight—metaphorically and physically—and I turn my attention from everything else to Maven, who stares at his shoes, apparently uninterested in the city. Why would he be? He's lived in the center of it all his life and has the luxury of picking and choosing when to appreciate it.

 _Stop it. Just . . . stop it._

"You know I have my reasons for why I don't like you buying all of this for me," I say, straightening my spine and bringing my heels up off the ground to get my mouth closer to his ear. The words are spoken quietly, though the people around me could care less as to what I'm talking about. "I'm not used to this sort of life for one, and—"

The red hand flicks to a white walk sign, and I start across the street, a pace ahead of Maven. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, how much about my life I want to reveal to the boy I met, truly met, this morning. I already told him how I ran away from home.

Curse my legs, because he's by my side again in the blink of an eye.

"And you're proud," he states plainly. "You like to do things for yourself."

 _Yes._ Mom's had to ask Will for an extension on rent payments more times than I can handle remembering, my family can't afford to take Gisa to the hospital for her wrist, and my pickpocket "salary" makes up a good percentage of the Barrow family income.

I don't mind taking a hack at Tiberias Calore's bank account. Well, however many accounts he has. But Maven's called me out. It stings my pride to accept all these pretty shoes and shirts conscious of the fact that I could never buy them for myself. He's rich; fortunate. I'm penniless; _unfortunate_. In allowing Maven to take me out shopping, I'm acknowledging a great divide between us, being dependent on somebody else.

Though I've had more fun today than I've had in a long time, a jaded, shriveled-up part of me is crying out to drop the bags right here.

Instead, I clench my fists around the straps as we reach the other side of the intersection. "You'll never know what it's like," I whisper barely loud enough for him to hear. "To worry about money."

I don't know how much Cal's told Maven about me. My partner hasn't mentioned my bad habit of pickpocketing or my sister's incident on Wall Street, though he'd be a fool to reveal Cal shared such intimate details with him. So for now, I'll keep it there. That money's an issue, that money's a sore spot.

"Oh, never say never," he returns, gazing up at the buttery-yellow buildings lining this block and those after.

Skeptical, I raise a brow. I almost stop in the middle of the street, even busier than it was this morning, if only to make a point like Ann did in the lobby. But cement sidewalk pounding at my feet, I allow Maven to keep walking towards the Academy's front doors, waiting for him to finish his train of thought.

"Empires rise and fall. It happens in fairy tales, it's happened plenty in history, and it happens every day in New York City. Stocks crash, owners make bad investments . . . businessmen are ousted for fraud. Not saying my father is one, but I'm just . . . saying. Don't think that any of our fates are sealed. Your's certainly isn't."

Maven gives me a wink as we step under the marquee. I travel ahead of him for the revolving door, but not before I half-turn my head over my shoulder. "You've been reading far too much classic literature, Maven."

A faint chuckle sounds behind me as I use my fists to propel the door forward, bunched around straps of bags.

I can't disagree with Maven, though I must say that the chances of his family going bankrupt are pretty low. Yes, it does happen, but it's hardly the sort of thing Maven could predict. Then again: I never could've guessed two weeks ago that I'd soon run away from home to chase my idiotic dream of dance.

The Academy's round-the-clock current of air conditioning doesn't fail as I step fully inside, greeted by an empty and quiet lobby.

 _Home_.

No. I shake the word away like it's something explosive. Maybe when it comes to dance, but never an actual home. Nothing more than a place to stay, until I get my situation at home resolved with my parents.

"I've said it already, but thanks," I say, twisting around towards Maven, who's passed through the doors. "I had a nice time today."

He smiles in return, the warm light of the lobby glittering in his eyes. It appears everyone from today's auditions is long gone, aside from any lonesome maids finishing up their shifts; security guards; and the members of the Calore family, wherever they might be. The auditorium doors remain ajar and far off, a vacuum steadily hums away.

Those are the only signs of life. Maven and I stare back at one another for a moment too long, as inanimate as the marble and stairs and chandeliers.

"I did as well," Maven says, breaking the oddly heavy air. "It was nice getting out of the building during auditions. This week at the Academy's always too hectic and it's not like I have any control of the judging, so . . . yeah, it was nice."

"I'm sorry," I blurt, perhaps against better judgment when we're in the Academy, fifty yards from Tiberias Calore's office, "about that. I don't see why they couldn't add a judging spot."

Maven laughs it off with a chuckle, like it would be so difficult to change the system. Add another row to the judging sheets or whatever. After hearing him talk today about ballet, I have no doubt he's qualified.

"Trust me: Cal's good, and you'll see it soon enough. I'll be where he is in two years." Something about his face tells me he doesn't think it himself. "Anyway. I can watch and judge dancers for the rest of the year, though I might not get a score sheet." Another wink. "I'm always here, living and breathing dance. Getting out, remembering I live in the largest city in America, was nice. If anything, I feel sorry for Cal: he's been stuck in the auditorium most of the week."

I pinch my lips together and nod, not quite believing Maven after his admission from earlier and my own experiences with my parents. But I don't say more, reluctant to push the subject when we still don't know one another very—

"Speak of the devil," Maven says under his breath, head angled to my right. In an instant, his faint smile becomes a tad bigger, warmer. I can't tell if it's natural or not.

Though the grating click of tap shoes is not to be heard, my shoulders tense up, and I wish I could blame it on the bags hanging off my arms.

In spite of all Cal's done for me, pulling strings behind the scenes more than once—twice—I don't . . . care for him. And I really don't want to have a run-in with him this late, when my defenses are poor and tired. He didn't tell me who he was the night we met after I told him about _who I was_ , a dancer been robbed of her dream, and it bothers me, how he's been manipulating things this whole time. Between the poster and calling me out after I fell onto the stage.

Yet . . . I decide quickly, maybe . . . maybe he kept quiet on the street for my sake, having figured it would be better if I didn't know who he was. It would only lead to jealous, pungent anger after all. That's why Cal was so closed-off about himself on our walk, asking questions and nodding, but never offering up anything more than a moniker that turned out to be a nickname. He did it to protect me, if that makes sense. He intended to give me a job but never let me know who he was, though I was bound to put the pieces together sooner or later.

And like I said before, the poster was an opportunity that I had the option of taking or leaving, and embarrassing as it was when he asked if I was going to audition—

When Cal comes into my line of vision, my plastered smile is more of a cringe.

Maven's brother stops before us, and I force myself to maintain somewhat of a gaze on him, even as Maven himself says, "All done with auditions?"

Cal nods. "Yeah. We'll have to tally the scores from today tomorrow morning, but other than that, we're finished." As if he's just now noticing the mass of bags Maven and I each hold, Cal drops his eyes to my hands, then Maven's. "Where have you two been?"

Simmering, "We've been out shopping all day. It wasn't my idea. In fact, we argued _quite_ a bit over how much he should be spending," I say.

His eyes dart up to mine for a brief moment before returning to the bags, probably wondering how much of their father's money, exactly, Maven spent on me. _Me too, Cal_.

"It wasn't her idea," Maven repeats. "I wanted to get to know my new partner before our lives are consumed by dance again, and I figured she could use some new dance things, since it's been so long since she last danced in a studio. You'll get along with her well, Cal. She's a Mets' fan."

I don't miss the smirk that briefly flashes on Cal's face.

"Always and forever." I'd cross my arms if I could, for the illusion of looking smug. My cap is tucked away somewhere in one of the bags, discarded after I got sick of taking it off every time we came to a new store. "But it's getting late. I should leave you two be and get a good night's rest," I say bluntly, wanting to avoid painful small talk with these two brothers.

"Alright. Can you manage the extra bags upstairs?" Maven holds up his arms as a visual. "Otherwise I'll let Cal help you. I need to go pick up my backpack from my father's office."

 _No chance in Hell_. "Thank you," I start, "but I'll be fine on my—"

"That's a lot of bags," Cal notes. "I don't mind helping. Here," he says, moving towards his brother to take bags off of his hands.

My eyes go wide.

* * *

The doors to the elevator start to glide close as I watch Maven hike up the stairs towards Tiberias's office, the lobby growing smaller and smaller as metallic silver takes over my field of vision. That, and a familiar head of black hair out of the corner of my eye.

A moment ago, though it feels like it took hours, I watched Cal take bag after bag from Maven, who excruciatingly separated mine from his one by one. I stood next to them idly, struggling to keep my face calm, steady, and not red before I walked ahead of Cal to the lift.

With a smooth sound, the elevator doors seal us inside, though I'm not afraid of the close quarters.

More like nervous of being in them with Cal, who I'm still trying to understand.

"I heard you liked my dance," I remark instead of asking another question, though I have _plenty_ of questions with the air of mystery surrounding Maven's brother. Yet after an entire day's worth of shopping, I feel burnt out and uninterested in searching for answers at this late hour.

Leaning into the wood paneling of the wall, I look up at the ceiling to see my reflection in a gold-tinted mirror, cut into squares. I assure myself I'll get my answers later, find out if any of my theories hold true.

In the glass Cal's face looks down—or up, perhaps—at me, his eyes burnished in the yellow light. The rest of his tanned, sharp features take on a similar effect, dully glazed like there's a film covering his face. His simple black clothes, no different than the ones he appeared in on Sunday, are turned brown, along with his hair.

And the bag straps don't do anything to hide the muscles on his arms, crossed. While Maven takes on a lean form like most in our field, Cal's strength takes on an outward appearance, though he still holds himself as a dancer just as I noted when I met him.

"I did. Everybody did," he replies, crossing one ankle over the other. To my pleasure, he doesn't wear tap shoes, but ordinary, unremarkable street shoes. "I thought you might be good when I saw those fouettés . . . but not that good."

"Good enough for what?" I ask and slice a chuckle out of a breath. "You took an awful big risk in calling me out onstage. You saw me do a few fouettés, but that's it. Wouldn't it have been embarrassing for you if I had shown up and utterly failed?"

I shouldn't act this way towards him, but I can't help it when I'm still so confused.

"They were really, really good fouettés."

Turning my eyes from the mirrors to Cal, I glare at him instead of his reflection. He has this vague, amused smirk on his face, and the near-foot height difference isn't helping my temper right now.

But he sees my annoyance, not something overly hard to spot, and his smile fades into neutrality. "I had a feeling, Mare. No, I didn't think you'd end up as my brother's partner, but I didn't think you'd end up as an understudy either. After hearing about what had happened on the street . . . you deserved the chance, whether or not you could stand up in pointe shoes. I wasn't thinking about how it would make me look."

I stare at him for a moment, blankly and almost with unfocused eyes. The elevator chimes each time we hit a floor, yet the sound is far away and murky. "I figured out why you didn't tell me who you were on the street. You're right: I didn't ask. But if I had known, I would've stopped talking to you then and there. And I definitely wouldn't have marched four miles to Midtown to inquire after a maid's job."

Cal nods, chin dropping near his sternum. "You were already so bitter. I didn't want to add to your problems."

 _My problems_. I have to contain my laugh, when they've hardly gone away since my audition. "Little did you know the job you got me would nearly kill me," I say, but in a joking tone. Cal opens his mouth, but I continue on. "Don't worry. Maven already told me they're adding a very much needed beam up there."

The elevator chimes one last time, indicating we've arrived on the tenth floor. The doors reopen and Cal gestures for me to leave first. _What a gentleman,_ I almost say, but I restrain myself from using too much sarcasm with Cal.

I also consider curtsying but force myself out the doors and into the hallway.

Cal doesn't waste any time in following behind me, stepping out and coming to my side. My feet eat up the patterned carpet in a hurry as I walk faster than I need to, my room down a ways.

"I've heard you're not a bad dancer yourself," I say, though _not a bad dancer_ isn't the phrase Maven or Lucas used in their descriptions of Cal. "When your dad's the company's owner, I'd think you'd be pretty . . . decent."

We continue down the hall, our voices and footsteps the only sounds. Anybody else who's already moved in for the season is either fast asleep or still out. It makes for a quiet evening. The doors are all closed and locked, even the A.C. put on a quieter setting.

"Careful. You wouldn't want to oversell my abilities," he says, laughing to himself. I laugh too, terrified to uncover how good of a dancer Cal actually is. "I've been training to be a principal dancer for the Academy since I could walk, and now here I am. I've put in my hours and paid my dues, but there's nothing more to it."

"And what are your hours? Ten, twelve a day now that you've graduated?"

He gives me a crooked grin. "Something like that. What are your hours?"

The hallway ends, a new one beginning at my left. We begin down it.

I raise my eyebrows, more than reluctant to tell him I was only practicing for about ninety minutes a day before this week. "This week?" I ask, bending his question. "I've spent every minute of daylight this week on my roof, reviewing tap, jazz . . . et cetera," I trail off.

"You hardly need the review. You're already a threat to Evangeline, and you haven't had professional instruction in months," Cal argues, stopping past me as I pause at my door, shifting bags so I can reach for the key shoved in my back pocket.

I bob my shoulders up, a pathetic shrug, weighed down by numerous bags. "Maybe in ballet, but . . . I watched her from up in those rafters before I fell. She's a great dancer, and you're lucky to have her as a partner. Trust me, I plan on spending all weekend reviewing modern dance technique because it's nowhere up to par with my ballet."

The door to my room unlocks and pushes open under my fingertips. I leave the door that way, venturing inside a few feet to fumble for the light switch. Cal waits at a polite distance outside, probably finding it inappropriate to come in before I turn on the lights.

"One second," I murmur, dragging my hand across the wall in attempt to feel something resembling a light switch. "Damn lights."

"You shouldn't be worried," Cal says, leaning against the door frame. "Even if you are as rusty as you claim, which I doubt, you'll catch up soon enough."

I find the switch and tap it on. "I hope," I say with a nervous huff, setting my bags by the couch in the living room. "Though these summer classes only last for around six weeks, right? Maybe I'll get myself kicked out of them early and pick up more ballet."

Cal doesn't take what I say as a question, so I assume I could _technically_ drop my extra classes. "Effective, but not nearly as much fun." He pushes off from the doorway and walks a few paces into my living room to set down his share of bags. "Hip hop, contemporary . . . you get to throw yourself all over the place and no one will yell at you for it. Ballet's just of hours of rehearsal and taking hit after hit from Elara and the others as they correct you _over and over_ again."

I raise my brow, but not for the reason he's thinking. Elara was the woman in Tiberias's study with Tiberias himself and her two sons. She wore a yellow sundress that clashed with her forbidding eyes. Maven's eyes. But not Cal's eyes.

Tucking the newfound piece of information away, I perch myself on the armrest of the couch while Cal stands with the bags at his feet. "If you're a match for Evangeline, then you're good at ballet. But you don't like it?"

He looks down at me, even more so than when I was standing. Cal shrugs and turns his head over his shoulder at the wide-open door, apparently concerned that somebody will overhear.

A hot second goes by of silence before Cal loosens a breath and turns back to face me.

"No, it's not my favorite. There's nothing wrong with ballet, but it's too strict for my taste."

I smile, thinking about how I'm the opposite. I struggle with the genres that don't have clear, defined lines and rules for me to follow; it's why ballet's always come naturally. I had to work harder, longer on hip hop and the little contemporary I've tried, though compared to the other girls at my old studio, I was still better than most of them.

"It wouldn't be very good for your fellow dancers to hear about how you don't like what you're the best at, I suppose," I say in a muse, balancing my chin in my palm and my elbow on my knee as I cross it. I try to slouch a little, mimicking what I think of contemporary dancers. _Lazy. Ridiculous_. "What's your favorite kind of dance, then?"

 _Don't say contemporary. Don't say contemporary._

God, I hate contemporary. I don't know why, but there's something about the bent legs and arms and slowness of it that do nothing but mock ballet, an art form sculpted over hundreds of years. It's too wild, too unpredictable. I danced contemporary for half an hour for a year when I was twelve or thirteen, but dropped it as soon as I could after I figured out how useless it was.

"Contemporary," he says.

I feel a strange urge to slap a hand on my face, hard. "Never got it," I say, shaking my head. "Ballet makes sense. Tap makes sense. Jazz and even hip hop usually make sense. Contemporary doesn't."

He and I give each other wacky grins, shaking our heads, not understanding each other in the least.

"Maybe someday I'll teach you," Cal finally says.

I continue shaking my head. "Goodnight, Cal."


	18. Chapter 18

_A gift_ , the small piece of paper reads, attached to a nondescript brown box. Without a second thought, I rip off the tape sealing it shut and push open the brown flaps.

And discover a black dress with thin straps inside along with another note.

 _More than likely, you don't have appropriate wear for tonight's ceremony. It was the least I could do; you'll look pretty in it._

— _E.M._

The initials of Elara Merandus, as said in the Academy's pamphlet. Her cursive scrawl is pristine and light, and the ink is every bit as immaculate as the woman herself. I toss the second piece of paper to the floor beside my bed.

Sneering, I gingerly remove the cream tissue paper enveloping the dress. It's bad enough I found this box on my bed when I returned from practicing in an empty studio this morning, meaning either Elara instructed a maid to leave it here or Elara herself has access to my room. I shiver at the thought but pull out the dress anyway.

 _Well. Shit_. The inky material is smooth and soft beneath my fingers, thicker than I expected something made of silk would be. Good; better than an overpriced, chintzy dress from a mediocre boutique I would've had to trudge to this afternoon. _At least Elara got that right_.

I hold it up, straps at eye level. Once I've put it on, the skirt will stop just below my knees. It flares out at the hips from a relatively tight bodice and at the top rests a sweetheart neckline. _Pretty_ , I can't help but think.

God, I haven't felt like this much of a girl in a long time, between Elara's gift and yesterday's shopping trip.

Half annoyed, half weak at the knees from staring at the simple yet bewitching garment, I lay it flat on my mattress next to the pair of heels I found at the box's side when I returned to my room. Like the dress, they're black and plain, yet not unremarkable: they're lustrous, spots becoming bright as I turn them over in my hands, and will give me some much-needed height.

I feel a mild sensation of bile rolling in my stomach. For once, I wish I could be happy for Elara's gift. She hit right on the mark with her selection for me, nothing extravagant or theatrical, and it was kind of her to remember I might not have the right sort of . . . attire for the ceremony. I give her that.

On the other hand, there has to be some ulterior motive, when I have a hard time believing the women _actually_ likes me. Her cold eyes and judgmental expressions don't suggest otherwise. Whether it be to get in my good graces, to make me a docile student—though I wouldn't dare behave in any other manner—make me in debt to her, or for another purpose I don't yet understand . . . I need to stop overanalyzing this.

Taking a deep breath, I round my bed and sprawl out on the side not crowded by new things. And attempt to stop overanalyzing.

* * *

It rains.

Hard.

Outside of the lobby, behind the glass windows protecting it, rests an overcast New York. And it's not just a few puffy white clouds passing over the sun, but a thick blanket of charcoal erasing every inch of July's crystalline blue sky. The street outside is dark like it's the end of dusk and nearly nighttime, but the sun won't set for another hour. From the sky spills tremendous amounts of rain, soaking every inch of the city in the water it's needed for over two weeks.

It storms too.

Thunder booms far off, and the windows flicker with distant flashes of lightning. I suppose Shade's wish finally came true for a storm to wash out all this heat.

Though I find it strange that rain—or better yet, a storm—decided to show up now. I don't religiously keep up with the papers and news, but I would've thought I'd hear about an impending downpour on the streets this week. The weather's usually a hot topic in Manhattan, especially with the wave of heat.

People are tired, gardens are suffering, and everybody is sweaty as hell.

I brush the thought aside to glance at the crowd behind me. Always a refined and distinguished group of people I've recently discovered, the dancers and the wannabes of the Academy wear first-class clothes and jewelry; I can almost picture them in their dance clothes and shoes again, anxiously waiting in this very room to go and audition. They still stand and socialize in their groups as I saw them on Sunday, but the dancers have exchanged their pointe shoes and taps for heels and dress shoes. The room happens to be even more cramped than it was then, and security's directing new arrivals upstairs. For the sake of everybody being able to find a seat, only those who auditioned are allowed into the theatre.

My dress ranks on the lower end of the glamour spectrum, some of the ladies in the room wearing near-floor-length gowns in contrast to my simple black, knee-length one. I forced myself to go out and buy some mascara, foundation, and even a light eyeshadow, but my basic cosmetics are nothing compared to the bloody lipstick and foot-long eyelashes the other girls wear.

To bring myself a little closer up to par with them, I've secured my hair into a low bun, and I self-consciously touch my fingers to it every few minutes.

The doors to the auditorium haven't opened, leaving everybody scattered around the lobby and murmuring over various topics. Some of the attendees pace, and they pass by me every so often, talking about the rain and dance, unsurprisingly. I lean against the long pane of glass looking out on Forty-Second Street; with nobody to talk to, I wait in the lobby like everybody else, but with nobody else.

 _Just like moving to a new school_ , I try to remind myself, though I roll my eyes at my reflection in the darkened glass. My family's lived in the same building for as long as I can remember, and I went to school with the same kids from kindergarten until eleventh grade. The people in this room are totally out of my league, complete leagues ahead of me, honestly. The idea of integrating myself into their little cliques seems like an impossible task, much less something I'm looking forward to. Maven's a lucky exception. And Cal . . . I don't know where to start with him.

I intentionally took my time in getting down here to wait, knowing I would have little to do besides for stand around awkwardly and wait for the doors, only to find a seat within the auditorium alone.

Yet I still managed to arrive too early.

So ever since then, I've leaned against this window, pondering why I didn't hear it was going to rain. There isn't a soul outside, leaving the typically bustling streets of Manhattan desolate. How odd.

In my periphery, people begin shifting towards the auditorium side of the lobby, and with another look over my shoulder, ushers have slipped through the doors to open them and begin gesturing those nearest the doors inside.

In the area of the lobby furthest from the doors, I rock from foot to foot. It'll take a little time, with the ushers checking everybody's audition forms to make sure _they're actually dancers_ and not _psychos trying to mess with the Academy and the Calores_ , as Lucas so-professionally stated when I asked him about it.

 _Tonight at seven o'clock, remember to be in the auditorium for the ceremony,_ he reminded me this afternoon, shortly after I unwrapped Elara's gifts. He knocked on my door, apparently under the impression I was going to forget about the ceremony he mentioned after the meeting in Tiberias's office. _Don't worry. It's nothing you have to prepare for. No dinner or dancing, or anything like that. But do dress nice . . ._

Lucas told me about tonight's logistics earlier, how dozens of divisions for placements are mind-numbingly called up by the instructor of each genre and level, while every last dancer in the audience is shaking beyond belief. He said it's safe to say there'll be plenty of screaming and crying afterward, enough to drown out the laughs and whoops of the ones who get the positions they want.

"Ready?" a male says, and I flinch at the suddenness of it.

Maven Calore is developing a tendency of sneaking up on me.

Or maybe I just zone out too much.

I wasn't expecting him to be out here in the public eye. Behind stage with his parents would make more sense, where I imagine Cal is as well. Yet he's out here, raising his brows at my dress and probably wondering where it came from.

He extends an elbow to me, but I gawk at him instead. "Not particularly," I murmur in response, looking him up and down: he adorns a suit and dress shoes like the other guys, a white button-up contrasting his black ensemble—including a bow tie—and about the most hair gel I've ever seen in my life.

"Scared?" he asks, elbow still pushed outward. I have no idea where he came from, just that now he's by my side and people have halted their conversations to watch us. _Great. Now they want to watch us_. My eyes flicker from side to side, trying to take in the stares without turning around myself. Maven leans into my ear. "You know you shouldn't be. You got up on stage once and didn't balk. And you don't even have to dance this time."

I can't help but laugh, finally looping my arm through his. "I don't buy it."

While Cal's the dancer all the young girls want to be partners with, Maven's a fine consolation prize. Evangeline has the kind of personality that fends off any bitter competitors, but I've come out of nowhere with no allies. None of the other dancers know anything about me, the girl who fell from the stage rafters as a lowly maid and emerged as a worthy dancer, stealing one of the Calore brothers for myself.

All of this was unintentional, I should add.

Maven shrugs. "It's no big deal. You'll go up a few times for your different genre placements, stand on stage while they call the rest of your group, and then sit down."

He puts it so simply. "That's a lot of hair gel, Maven," I say instead of responding to his reassurances.

His eyebrows narrow and his lips twist into a smirk. "Let's go sit down."

* * *

From the stage, a woman with near-white hair announces another pair of dancers, nothing about her tone welcoming or relaxed. She reads names off mechanically from a folded piece of paper with arched eyebrows—either from surprise, displeasure, or they're truly just shaped like that—and makes no attempts at lightening her stern voice.

"Blonos is one of the dull mistresses, but nobody can say she's bad at her job," Maven explains to me in a whisper from the chair next to me. "She's an expert in ballet technique and has a dancer in tears at least once a week; _the only way to build you up is to break you down_ , she says. Every year companies around the world try to steal her from us. London, Paris, Bolshoi . . . we pay her handsomely."

Interested in Maven's words, I squint a little harder at the woman. She must be in her fifties, but whatever anti-aging cream she's using works terrifying miracles; there isn't one wrinkle on her pale skin. More than anything, I notice her perfect posture. Though it would be a sin for a ballet instructor to slouch. And of course, like every other lady here, she's wearing a dress, silver with black lace.

Maven and I sit near the front on the left side of the theatre, having snagged two chairs on the aisle. Since the program began a while ago, the audience has practically held its breath, unlike the steady hum it held before Tiberias and his board members walked onstage to signal the start of the ceremony.

Rather than listen for names and focus on the dancers and their partners lining up on stage—we're currently in the returning Corps ballet dancers category—I look to more exciting things, which include counting shimmering hairpieces and the number of seats in the theatre: eight-hundred-seventy-five, to be precise.

Meaning eight-hundred-seventy-five people, not eight-hundred people watched me, _applauded me_ , on Sunday. Tonight every one of those seats is filled by men in dark-colored suits and ladies in a rainbow of dresses. A few late arrivals crowd the back wall by the doors, making for a suffocating atmosphere.

The lighting is seductive and golden, ceiling lights faintly illuminating the audience so that we're not in complete darkness. But it's the stage, as is the usual, stealing the show. Set apart from the dancers on stage, Blonos is on its front and center while everybody else is cast in the shadows of the expansive theatre. She must be immune to stage fright by now.

I sink a little deeper into my seat and curl my fingers into the red velvet. Blonos calls more names, summons more dancers onto the stage, where ladies line up in front of their male counterparts. Some get called alone, not having a partner. They're veterans up there, already part of the best Corps de Ballet they'll ever find. Older than Cal and Evangeline, but apparently not as good. Earlier, the two got called up with the returning soloists and Principals. Though Evangeline is new to the Academy, wherever the hell she came from, Cal isn't: apparently he was a soloist last year and became a Principal this summer.

I'll be training with all of them soon enough, in the top tier of the Academy's ballet classes.

I can't believe I can still dance when I haven't had professional instruction in so long. I credit it to my disorganized bedroom-floor practice, where I somehow maintained most of my skills, but . . .

It confounds me. I've had nearly a week to let my new life sink in, and still, this is so . . . insane. To be in the Manhattan Dance Academy's auditorium, to shortly hear my name said by one of the greatest ballet teachers in the world . . . I didn't think I'd ever dance on a stage larger than my bedroom floor again, and yet I'm here. _Here_.

Among some of the greatest names in ballet, soon to dance with them. I've probably watched some of them on YouTube before, probably learned how to do _fouettés_ and leaps from them.

"This is crazy," I say under my breath and hope only Maven hears. "This is insane."

 _This is so fucking insane_.

"And now to announce our new arrivals for the year," Blonos says tightly, almost in time with my thoughts as another usher comes from the wings to hand her a new paper. Without Blonos or anybody else directing them, the veteran of the Corps shuffle their feet back until they're a few paces more upstage. To make room for the new arrivals.

Maven told me earlier that this'll be his first year in the Corps, having trained in Academy's preparatory courses up until now. This is our category.

The rhythm of my heartbeat picks up, though I'm not in the same situation as the others, unsure of if they'll make it or not.

The usher meets Blonos with the crisp and pristine parchment, and she grabs it with a dainty hand.

"We had both plenty of good and bad auditions for our new ballet dancers," she says, looking out at the audience as if she's judging us even now. It's the first time she's glanced up from her paper. "As many of you know, I was out of the state scouting for already _next_ year's ballet prospects, but I regret that I didn't get to see your auditions for myself, especially considering what Mister Calore has told me of them. Yet regardless," she pauses, dark eyes whipping back and forth, almost in search of somebody, "I'm delighted to begin a new year of teaching you all."

Impressive. She had the taste to give a brief introduction. With an "ahem," to clear what must be a dry throat after dozens of names called, Blonos cracks open the folded paper.

My heart pounds, but I'm just another name, another person on the stage, regardless of who my partner is.

Though I get a vague feeling Blonos's scanning eyes are searching for me.

"Why did you come and find me?" I ask Maven suddenly, in need of a distraction. And even if I didn't, it's still a question on my mind, repeating itself over and over again. _Why aren't you backstage with your family? Why are you here with me?_

For the entire evening, it's just been Maven and I whispering random comments to one another, never turning our bodies to make eye contact. I never asked for it either, content to have a friend nearby while we listened to name after name in category after category in silence. But now I do, twisting my hips towards him.

He's already there, his eyes pronounced in the darkness. So unlike Cal's fire and so similar to his mother's.

"I was on my way backstage. But I saw you by yourself, staring out into the rain. I would've felt awful to leave you alone," he says quietly, quieter than quiet.

Without a mirror, I know my eyes _break_. Break because I did feel so alone before Maven, my newfound knight in shining armor, showed up with his elbow extended to me in greeting. Break because Maven came to my side when he must know how it feels to be left alone.

The two of us . . . we really need to work on getting out of these types of conversations.

"Thank you," is what I have the capacity to say before turning back to the front. I almost wish I hadn't asked, because somewhere deep down, I already knew the answer.

* * *

" _Mare Barrow and Maven Calore_ ," Blonos reads from her paper.

Her voice is laced with a foreign curiosity as she says my name, and I swear her eyebrows arch higher.

My vertebra locks up, in spite of preparing for this, those words the entire night. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, some invisible force presses against my throat, and I can't breathe.

But Maven nudges me gently, chasing away any ghosts perhaps roaming around the auditorium, and gracefully as possible, I rise from my chair and head down the aisle, trying to pace myself. Too fast would come off as too eager, and too slow suggests fear.

They watch. I was expecting it and certain it would be the worst part of the night. Maintaining a pleasant smile, my hands are relaxed, one holding the other against my back. And along with my hands, I feel burning gazes searing into my back, of envy, of anger—or maybe I'm making it all up.

I'm lucky I can walk in heels, high enough that I have to think Elara had a dream of me tripping on stage last night. My ankles don't betray me on my elegant trek down the aisle, Maven close so he might have a chance at catching me if I fall.

The audience watches, and heads turn my direction as I promenade by, but when I hit the set of stairs—with a railing, to my delight—Blonos calls another pair. Though not all, some of them lose interest in me.

Clearing the stairs, the heat of the stage assaults me right away, but I do my best to welcome the white-hot lights.

The clicks of my heels on wood are the only sounds in the world. To my left, the veteran dancers and the newbies lining up stare straight out into the audience; to my right, the audience stares back and another pair makes their way forward from the other side of the auditorium.

Right ahead is the left stage wing, and Cal stands with Evangeline at its edge. His father, Elara, and a gaggle of directors, instructors, and stagehands are situated deeper within, some standing and others seated in basic metal chairs. How glamorous.

Cal comes across every bit as ridiculous as Maven does in his suit and hair gel. He gives me a wink as I take my place next to the girl called before me, and I resist every instinct telling me to roll my eyes and stick out my tongue at him.

In time, Maven slips into his place behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Evangeline with a stupid, arrogant smirk on her face.

 _Bitch_.

Hundreds of people watch us don our best fake smiles, their own faces hidden under the cover of shadows in the auditorium. Like Sunday, the crowd is dark and infinite, difficult to see where it begins and ends, made up of blurry human beings and their shiny jewels.

We don't stand there for long. The Academy only selected two new pairs of Corps de Ballet dancers and three other girls.

The audience starts clapping, and I keep on smiling through my teeth.


	19. Chapter 19

_Your schedule is as follows:_

 _9:00 - 11:30 A.M—Ballet Technique_

 _12:00 - 2:00 P.M—Corps de Ballet_

 _2:30 - 4:00—Tap_

 _4:30 - 7:00—Jazz and Hip Hop Combination_

 _Time between classes should be spent warming up._

 _As the year progresses, schedules will shift as ballet rehearsals and performances take over and your minor focuses of dance are shed. By early September, this change will occur, and you will be dancing ballet from 9 to 7 six days per week._

With a half-eaten apple between the thumb and middle finger of my left hand, I clutch the paper Elara handed to me on Saturday evening in my right.

I read over my schedule again as I walk down a corridor faster than I'd like to for my first day of class, though I know the times as well as the palm of my hand.

 _It's only 8:45. You're fine_ , I think to myself and slow into a less embarrassing pace, readjusting the bag that's nearly fallen off my shoulder during the rushed journey from my room to Blonos's studio. It carries nothing of importance, really, besides my pointe shoes. A grey leotard, black tights, and ballet slippers are already on me, covered by a long-sleeved shirt and warm-up pants. I wrangled my hair into a fresh bun while I was back in my room. The bag's otherwise filled with useless things, like an old sweatshirt, legwarmers—which I hate by the way—and . . . I'm rambling.

I've tried to calm my mind. I woke up at six so I wouldn't feel rushed, but the extra minutes awake did no good—only offered time for me to make up wild scenarios of humiliation and terror in my head.

Yes, technically class doesn't start until nine. But written in between the lines of my schedule are _highly recommended_ arrival and warm-up times, just as Elara wrote how time before class should be spent. Every decent dancer knows that. And particularly on the first day of class, I don't want to be an exception that knowledge.

Alongside each row of my schedule is a room number meaning next to nothing to me and a name. A teacher. Someone to criticize and judge me, a kind of person I haven't had in so long in terms of dance. Like the scorching lights of the stage, I do my best to welcome the thought of instructors calling me out and making me better.

 _You're not perfect_ , that voice tells me. Not that I ever said I was. I'm not Evangeline, who would probably die before admitting anything less. I need critiques, I need practice under the guidance of people who actually know what they're doing. This past six months . . . my teachers have been my memory and the occasional how-to video. So I'll take it. Every whispered comment, every yell from across the room when I'm doing something so blatantly wrong.

 _You're far from perfect, in fact_.

Blonos's studio—or one of them, I mean to say—is situated on the third floor along with the other ballet classrooms. Far away from the tappers, who have the entire ninth floor to themselves. There's an almost certain chance one of those studios is right under my room, meaning those who tap full time will be keeping me up at night.

Stay on track, darling.

I've been on the third floor for a minute or two, winding my way through the hallways. I should've scoped things out last night, when I had time and still, unshaking fingers. Now I'm fairly sure I took a wrong turn at one point or another and question if I've lapped myself on this floor or not.

 _You haven't. You've been reading the numbers next to the doors. You're fine._

The voice of logic speaks yet again just as a thronging of women appear from the hallway coming up. They wear tight long sleeve shirts, the same baggy pants I wear made from some glossy material meant to contain heat, those ridiculous legwarmers, and ballet flats. Without a glance at me, they quickly disappear through the doorway at the end of my hall.

Professionals always wear all this extra crap to stay warm and avoid injuries, so I figured I should too. Seeing the other girls now, I'm glad I chose to show up in more than a leotard and tights. I hardly want to be the odd one out, especially now.

At my studio, I used to show up in the same clothes I had worn to school that day and would change into my leotard and tights in a small dressing room. There was nothing professional about it nor was it supposed to be. My classes back then were for recreation in the other girl's eyes, and only at the very back of my mind did I ever consider about someday going to a real dance school—

 _Enough. Enough_.

I'm not the last one. The constant chatter of two girls behind me the hall at my back tells me that much. Still . . . _8:46? 8:47_?

The door looms closer, and despite my fear, I force myself to go on.

 _It's just like going to a new school_ , I remind myself of the analogy again. I'll actually try to make friends here, unlike back at both my high school and my East Harlem studio, where I practically made being a loner into a campaign. Though I'll never understand the popular girls and their cliques; but since _most_ of these people are adults, maybe it won't be that way. _Just a few. Just a few friends._

All of a sudden, the door is in front of me, and I'm crossing through it. The time it took to walk from my room to here feels as fast and as slow as falling from the stage rafters. Just as painful too, but in a completely different sort of way. The fear has had so much more time to manifest, for my fingers to shake . . . for every muscle in my body to lock up.

More of a mental unrest than a fear for my life, I suppose.

 _You're being overdramatic. Again._

The room is glass and grey and light. And an absolute cavern.

Easily four times the size of the rooms I've cleaned, the walls of Blonos's studio are covered in streamlined mirrors ten feet tall; only the back wall, from where I enter, is without them and adorns that familiar cream paint. Beneath my flats rests grey vinyl, the reflection of overhead lights shining dully.

I look up and find those fluorescents a good two stories from my head. They gleam, though not clinically, making for a warm-enough atmosphere. With this studio on the Academy's interior, none of those classical golden windows grace its walls to reveal the summer sun, but something far more interesting catches my eye.

Wrapping around what should be considered the second story of the studio, is a balcony. A wrought-iron railing contains it, and there's probably ten feet of walking space between the railing and the wall opposite. Leaving plenty of room for . . . what, spectators? Teachers? Looking at it darkly, it reminds me of how overseers would watch workers in a work camp. One of the walls up there contains a panel of glass but reveals nothing more than another hallway through it; the rest of the walls are painted differently, more of a sandstone orange than cream.

Though my attention can't stay fixed on the architecture of the grand room for long, as it quickly shifts to the floor, dancers and rows of black barres orderly across it and at the walls.

The sixty-or-so men and women already in the studio don't pause their stretching as I enter, no more than another dancer to them in the room. Very few have yet discarded their warm-up clothes, instead wearing extra layers as they arch their backs, hyperextend their legs, and flourish their arms in both extreme and subtle stretches.

They're beautiful. Even their most simple of movements, from _tendues_ to _plies_ , are striking, full conviction.

A soft ballad plays from overhead speakers, and my eyes dash upward again, though I see no source of the sound.

Unsure of where to go, I stand rooted in place. From a quick glance, two dozen spots at the black barres remain open, beckoning me to them. My fingers grasp the strap of my bag as I glance around, but there aren't any cliques I can register with everybody relatively quiet in their stretches. No whispers or giggles like there were eternally in my studio, just a few murmurs from friend to friend. No groups. Good, but it'll still be a shot in the dark, a lethal game of cafeteria and—

"Anywhere you wish, Miss Barrow."

My capricious attention flicks once again from over my left shoulder to my right, where I find Blonos, Lady Blonos, Mistress Blonos, whatever she likes to be called, examining me with a stern yet _curious_ glint to her eyes.

"What?" The word stumbles out, weak and uncertain while I struggle to look her in her dark, unforgiving eyes. I only register _what_ she told me after the foolish word comes out. She's every bit as uptight and demanding as she was on stage Saturday night, now wearing a black cardigan wrap, some black shirt underneath, and to my dismay, black leggings that cut off past her pale knees.

I've hardly made it ten feet into the room, and I'm already frozen, Blonos's stare like bolts. Her lips stay perfectly sealed together while she assesses me, not answering my question. Probably fine details like the color of my hair and my height, things that will undoubtedly matter to her in some way later on.

I stay rooted in place, and I couldn't move if I tried. I hold her challenge, and I'd straighten my spine if it wasn't already. Her grey-white hair is pulled into a tighter-than-tight bun at her nape, and her shoulders are pressed backward. Everything about her is stiff, from her unyielding face to her interlaced, curled fingers, resting at her torso. Arguably worse than Elara.

Would I be like that, if I spent thirty years dancing?

"Anywhere you like. Your audition was good," she says simply, and I have to wonder if she held out on me only to set my nerves off. Blonos nods a few times as if she's agreeing with herself, before offering me a fraction of a smile, nothing more than a strained curve of her mouth. "I look forward to watching you dance."

My face almost flinches with surprise. Blonos. Stern, boring Blonos just said that to me. "Thank you," I say quietly and offer a little curtsy out of instinct, not knowing what else to do or say.

" _Mmm-hmm._ "

Eyesight isn't needed to know she watches that simple, easy movement, and perhaps even my retreat across the room.

I decide on the end of a barre, the side further from the front mirror. My usual instinct would be to find the front of the room where I could best see the mirror, but I shove old habits down. If there is such a code here, I don't belong in the front. Not yet.

With a carefully-aimed look further down the mirror, I find the reflection of Blonos, who's blessedly lost attention in me and turned her focus to the doorway again. Like a hawk, she watches the last few dancers who come in pairs and trios, but no words come out of her mouth as they did for me.

Despite the small number of words, she did in fact speak to me. Compliment me.

My heart jumps up at my throat at the thought, and I shove it back down, dropping my bag at the barre's end. Before another person can claim it for their own, I settle myself at it, daintily touching, assessing the dark wood with the pads of my fingers. _Very nice_.

I wouldn't know if these people have learned a particular order of stretching throughout the years they've danced here, so I start up my old stretching routine, no different than the one I've been doing all these months in my room. And before that, back in the studio. On the barre, on the vinyl floor. Only here, there's scenery—dancers and light and piano music.

It's all about dance, a place to live and breathe dance and nothing else. And I don't mind it at all.

I readjust from one position to another, balancing a leg on the barre and laying the whole upper half of my body on top of it. Though I hardly need the warm-up, no ache in my hamstrings like there was earlier when I stretched in my room for an excessive amount of time. Open eyes stare at the floor under me and my foot on the ground, forgetting just a little bit about the other, highly-skilled dancers around me.

Until I bring my nose away from my shin, remove my ankle from the barre.

Among the other dancers, who also continue to be off in their own worlds, stands a new one, probably no older than nineteen. Young, like me and Evangeline. Young like Cal and Maven.

Vaguely, I realize I've seen her before. The girl has dark brown skin, the color of caramel, and eyes the color of storms, but far from sullen. Excited, whether it be from nervous energy or not . . . and a hint of kindness, if I'm not mistaken.

She was one of the other new Corps dancers on stage, one of the three who didn't have a partner.

I give her a tight smile and nod of acknowledgment, but then switch my legs and lean against my left in another easy stretch. I'm not sure exactly what that glimmer of emotion in her eyes is for, what it's out of.

She leans down too, copying my stretch. Our feet, both clad in new, frilly ballet slippers, soon to turn into ripped-up monstrosities, nearly touch in the process. The girl keeps her face pressed against her leg as she whispers, "My name's Iris." Her quiet talk is nothing strange or remarkable amidst the occasional tendril of conversation from one dancer to another. "Your dance was beautiful."

"Thank you," I say out of instinct. The corners of my lips tilt up against my shin, though they shouldn't. I should be stretching more, focusing wholly on it, and preparing for whatever insanity Blonos has in store for me in the next two and a half hours. "I'm Mare," I respond with my own name, but it's for no more of a reason than to have something to say. She already knows my name, along with everybody else in the studio.

"I would imagine it's going to get awfully tiring introducing yourself to all these ladies when they already who you are," Iris says, reading my thoughts.

I would imagine her smile into her leg is just as big as mine.

* * *

" _One, two, three, four,_ " Blonos croons as she drifts from one side of the room to the other, keen eyes meticulously skimming from one of us to another.

An actual pianist has come into the room, settling onto the bench before a grand piano tucked into the room's corner.

I've never felt so upright, though I force my shoulders to stay down and relaxed. Keep my fingers steady and stretching out in front of me for the _pirouette_ after _pirouette_ Blonos orders. Even when I was little and shy, I was fearless when it came to going to my studio that one time a week for ballet. Now . . . though I enjoy every single, double, and triple—and so on— _pirouette_ and find nothing wrong with them myself—

" _Five, six, seven, eight_."

With her words, I prepare myself, pushing out my arms and stepping into fourth position. And turn.

I spot my head with every rotation, counting the number of times I see the wall in front of me. _One, two, three_ . . . Blonos has made us turn around from the safety of the mirrors, and I no longer have somebody else to follow, left to the mercy of the wall.

 _Four, five, six._

Coming out of the turn on unwieldy legs and feet, thankfully, I land with my arms in a diagonal line, my front leg bent and the back straight. Six _pirouettes_.

I maintain my stare on the wall. I've been glad to learn in the past hour, with all of the basic, basic ballet we've done, that my teacher taught me a universal language. Preps and landings and fingers and arms are all the same, from the _arabesques_ to the _assemblés_ to the _pirouettes._ For as much as despised my ballet teachers for it at the time, I'm suddenly glad they forced me to learn French terminology for ballet class.

"Decent," she muses, walking between my row, which has become the front, and the second. "Once more. Then you can be done."

My feet, still in ballet slippers, don't balk at her words.

Faintly, I recall that somewhere in this room are Cal, Maven, and Evangeline. Ballet technique is for the entire ballet company, not just the Corps, filling the room with nearly a hundred dancers. Yet I've forgotten about all of them, even the ones I know, as we've gone through the basic motions of dance.

" _One, two, three, four,_ " Blonos calls again

I clench the muscles of my stomach, stand tall as Blonos begins, " _Five, six, seven, eight_ ," and I turn, strong and proud.

The room turns into a blur of glass and people even as I spot my head over and over.

I land, arms quickly going diagonal before they drop to my sides. I press my lips into a firm line.

Basic _pirouettes_ , not even _en pointe_.

I begin to settle into myself—my body truly relaxing and me not forcing it to—even as I keep on wondering what's to come.


	20. Chapter 20

I must admit: it's strange not dancing in the front of the room.

I had the time of my life in Blonos's technique class. A substantial layer of sweat from the two and a half hours coats my neck, and I have to resist the urge to pull off my pointe shoes and massage my feet. But it was amazing. Once she finished torturing us with twenty sets of _pirouettes_ , we moved into combinations and about every skill I might come across in a dance. The footwork and leaps we rehearsed were foreign and familiar and most definitely challenging. Blonos found ways to point out errors in our most simple of tasks, from turnouts to _plies_ , mistakes I couldn't have identified with a microscope.

Everybody at the Academy is elite in a sense if they made it in at all. I fell thirty feet onto a hard and unforgiving wooden floor for this, an opportunity to start in the best dance Corps in the world. I won my place, a place sought after by every girl who didn't make it.

Cal and Evangeline are strange exceptions to be Principal dancers at their age. If I somehow survive here, it'll take years and years to earn a position as a soloist, to so much taste a solo in the professional limelight. Maven, too, is just beginning his long and painful journey through the ranks of the dance world, his brother to contend with. As promising of dancers as we both might be, I doubt we'll actually dance together much. Perhaps for practice, for when we're older . . .

It's only strange, nothing I didn't expect.

I was in the front line almost always during my old days of dance—first for my zeal when I was small, and then for my technique when I was older. Once, on a day I went home with a smile that stayed until I fell asleep, my ballet teacher had whispered into my ear that I was her _little protégé_. I'll never forget that line.

But unless you're Evangeline Samos, you do not simply _become_ a Principal.

As groups took turns across the floor, I watched Cal and the other Principals especially close. For everything he said about ballet, it seems like an utter lie after I've watched him dance. Every motion was powerful, controlled, even as he made it beautiful. About as flawless as a dancer will ever get, with his perfect leaps and _a la secondes_. He undersells himself.

But so I do, perhaps.

It's only strange, nothing I didn't expect

* * *

I arrive at Elara's studio with little time to spare, having gone back to my room to get a granola bar.

Over half of the ladies I had technique with are in the room, and I assume no more will be coming. The principals and soloists have no use for this class, having gone their separate ways to individualized sessions. Off to learn their new parts for the Academy's first performances of autumn. There's no sign of the male dancers of the Corps, either, leaving me to a room of nearly thirty ballerinas.

The room is worth hardly any notice. There's nothing wrong with it, but it's just another studio overlooking Forty-Second. A grey floor, a long panel of mirrors, and barres tucked to the side walls. I have trouble believing Blonos and Elara are ones for frivolous decor, like the inspirational quotes and posters my teacher used to have strung up on her studio walls. Maybe that crap is for the young anyway.

Elara Merandus catches my attention, who happens to be sitting on the only piece of furniture around: a lovely metal folding chair. Like Blonos, she wears all black, but in the form of a dress: with a sweeping neckline exposing the wholes of her collarbones, the dress flows to her knees and ends in an asymmetrical skirt. Elara pours over a notebook in her lap, perhaps choreography notes or sheet music—or something else on the order of dance—and her mouth bent into a slight frown, she rhythmically taps on the paper.

Everybody maintains a good twenty feet from her, as if an arc guards Elara—made of her foreboding aura, probably—and detracts each dancer from her. A warning, if you will. Wife of Tiberias Calore or no, she's scary, to put it simply.

Instead, Corps members warm up. Again. Some have asserted spots at the barres along the room's edges, more are sprawled out on the floor, and others review familiar moves Blonos taught us today. A half an hour between classes is a bit of a maddening break, not enough to leave the Academy and get anything done, but enough to get bored. I bought groceries with my day and half's worth of cleaning money yesterday, so I returned to my room and ate. Though Elara's note to me left no mention to eating, only spelling out that _time between classes should be spent warming up_.

I roll my eyes. Inwardly, of course.

Finding an empty space near the window, I settle into a lunge. Absentmindedly, I look out the window, right where the floor meets the glass.

So hot out today, the air ripples and distorts in front of me. As much as I hated it, I was accustomed to dealing with the heat as I made my daily pursuits throughout the city. We didn't have an air conditioner at home either, having to rely on fans to keep the air circulating in the apartment. I considered stripping my bed of its sheets countless times this month, Gisa hogging the fan in our room and Tramy and Bree refusing to lend me one of their two fans time and time again. I didn't thrive on it the way Kilorn told he did, one odd person out of a thousand, but I coped with it. Learned to tolerate it, as much as I complained.

I left the building yesterday for food and walked with Maven dozens of blocks on Friday, but already the idea of going outside seems far-flung. Even on Sundays, my one day a week I'll have off, roaming the streets seems like a poor option compared to staying inside the safe coolness of the Academy, dancing and soaking up the AC.

As I gaze downward, sitting into my stretch, the people jump out to me more than they did while I was one of them. They either hurry about the streets or travel dreadfully slow, sluggish because of the temperature. Which one was I?

Did I pass by this place often, before I knew what it was and who could've been watching me through panes of half-silver mirrors? For all of my journeys throughout the city, I struggle in remembering how often I came across this place. I know Forty-Second fairly well, but it's a long street with a lot on it. For all the wallets, all of the eager consumers making their way towards the heart of Times Square, I only paid attention to what served me. Buildings I could duck into, handy hiding places for the times my victims gave me a run for my money—literally—were what I looked to most, and with a security guard outside of it, the Academy wouldn't have been on that list.

The stoplight's red, making for a congestion of harlequin cars below. I can't hear them, but I can flawlessly picture the drivers honking their horns and yelling out their car windows for no reason whatsoever.

 _I'm driving here!_

It would be an impossible task to count the number of times an angry New Yorker has yelled that at me as I've walked or ran across a street when I shouldn't have. My adventures in the city this summer have been something else. While boring a majority of the time, I did have my occasional fun: the afternoons I ended up sprinting halfway across Manhattan when my fingers weren't sticky enough; nearly causing car accidents more than once because of those sprints; and my talks with Will Whistle whenever I'd go in to trade jewelry and such, who never failed to entertain me.

Those conversations set a smile to my face I have to force back. Anybody glancing at me will think I'm crazy.

The sun's somewhere over the Academy, at its zenith for the day. It's too far overhead to see it directly on, but its reflection twinkles on the side of a distinctly tall building two blocks down. It's pretty when I don't have to deal with its cruel heat, a bright white light on the side of blue glass.

Just two days ago, it stormed. The puddles are all gone now, as though it never happened.

But ironically, my view of the city is better back on my rooftop at the apartment than this. Every which way I look, a ridiculously tall skyscraper stands in my way. Glassy, translucent buildings versus crumbling, old ones. One can see nothing and the other can see everything.

While the streets of East Harlem are packed with apartments and businesses, they don't reach so high as the skyscrapers of Midtown. Something I probably took for granted, as much as the bustle of Manhattan infatuates me.

"The performances of the Corps de Ballet are the most unappreciated thing," Elara says out of the blue, and almost as if it's planned, all of us dancers from our various positions on the floor, at the barre, and plainly standing up snap our heads to where she's seated.

She's not lying. The star of the show will never be the Corps, despite the fact that without the Corps there'd be nothing. There would be no swans of Swan Lake or snowflakes in the Nutcracker.

"Then again: very few appreciate ballet to begin with."

Her heeled Mary Janes click against the floor as she rises, walking towards us. I never noticed it before, but she isn't a tall woman, two or three inches over me. Yet everything else makes up for the minor shortcoming, between her stick-straight, wiry build; her gothic, dreary clothing; and those deathly cold eyes. Outwardly, Blonos and Elara aren't so different . . . but the former's strict attitude stems from discipline. Elara's comes from something else completely.

Elegantly, she steps over the outstretched legs of dancers and halts in the room's center. Either frozen from uncertainty or respect for their longtime dance teacher, none of the ladies around me move.

"The Corps may not be the most glamorous aspect of a ballet performance, but it sets the stage for the soloists and our Principal dancers. When you were young, you all wanted to be that one dancer: the one in the pretty pink dress at the front of the stage, dancing around two dozen white swans."

I hide my smile, remembering how I danced around the living in bubblegum hair ties.

The women around me do the same, though I can see fissures in the expressions of a few. Eyes that blanch, mouths that twist the slightest bit. Some of them have probably been in the Corps for ten years, whether they've liked it or not.

"Becoming a member of the Academy at all and in the first place is a great honor. You should be proud of yourselves. Yet as talented as you all are . . . not all of you are meant to be soloists. In fact, most of you never will."

A couple nod. Most continue to stare at Elara, eyes almost glazed over. They've heard this bitter diatribe before.

"Some of you ladies have been in the Corps for ten, fifteen, maybe even twenty years. Some of you have enjoyed every minute of it, and others of you have wanted to be a soloist since the day you stepped into the Academy hardly out of high school." She paces now, stepping over more limbs in the process. It's an intimidation strategy, I think, the walking and clicks and getting so close to the girls. To gain their respect and submission, as if she's a schoolteacher who needs it.

Nobody would dare step one foot out of line. Not when we're getting paid to live out our dreams.

"To all of you: I wish I could say ranks were based on seniority, but they're not. In my book, there are those who have what it takes to become a prima ballerina, and those never will. Both are equally important. Those who are willing to be a part of a performance bigger than themselves, play four different roles a night, know twenty minutes of choreography—it's no easy feat, and I applaud you for it."

She pauses, eyes passing over a number of us. Her gaze snags on me, blinks, and moves on.

"Then there are my girls who stand out. The ladies who have the heart of a soloist, as I call it. They're the ones who catch my eye the first time they ever audition. _They're_ the ones who dance late into the night and wake up at dawn to do it all over again. If I were to ask each and every one of you what your passion is, you'd respond with ballet, or dance. I'd believe it, too. But the soloists . . . they're the ones who live for nothing else. They find emotion behind the most elementary steps, and they put everything they have into it. They're not only dancers, but they're performers who could walk into Hollywood and get an A-list acting job."

This time, she's careful to keep her eyes straight ahead on the glass to not give away who she might think has the _heart of the soloist_.

"This year, I want you all to think about what I'm saying. Let it be your choice, if you desire to stay in the Corps." An outright guilt trip and everybody knows it. "Not all of you can be more special than you already are.

"But find ways to make me notice you. We're one of the best ballet companies in the world for a reason, and it isn't because our _pirouettes_ are any better than the next company's, ladies. Every professional dancer in the world can do a perfect pirouette, regardless of whatever Mistress Blonos preaches to you. It's because of the emotion our best dancers have always evoked from their audiences, that we are among the best."

Her face remains still and austere throughout every one of her words, every part of her lecture. "If you're content to stay in the Corps for the rest of your dancing career, then so be it. Every Corps dancer is as vital as anybody else, and we need a lot of them. But I know for a fact many of you want more than to be a so-called _ordinary_ part of an elite ballet company. You want to be the star of the show, the woman in the pretty pink tutu you dreamed about becoming when you were little girls.

"If you want it so badly then get up early. Stay late. Don't expect it to be handed to you with one audition, and certainly don't sit back and wait for it to be handed to you now. Because it won't."

One last time, Elara steps through the maze of dancers' limbs; she retreats to her chair to grab her notebook.

"Now with _that_ issue off our minds, let's begin."

Following the others, I push out of the stretch I was in all this time. Rise up to my feet, aching to dance.

 _Because it won't._

No. It won't.


	21. Chapter 21

The room alarm clock beeps three times before the heel of my palm collides with its top.

And after rising from my outrageously comfortable bed, I don't look at the time again.

Dawn still hasn't arrived when I go downstairs to the studio Lucas got me permission to use in the morning, nearly three hours before any ballet classes begin.

Though _it_ won't be for years, I guess you say Elara's speech inspired me.

On gloriously aching legs, I find my way to a smaller barre left out and begin a routine that should be repetitive and boring. I enjoy it far too much, especially as that ache of yesterday courses through every part of my body.

Elara wasted no time after her speech, having us spread out across the floor for another grueling technique class.

In a few weeks, they'll bring in the choreographers and teaching apprentices for the Corps as we near the start of the fall season and they return from their scouting trips in the states and Europe. Maven told me that's when the real fun starts, because of how it's always so _quiet_ the first few weeks without the buzz of production and rehearsal, the constant rushing over to the Met for performances.

Nonetheless, this place seemed _loud_ enough to me. Between Blonos and Elara's classes . . . I haven't been in a place with so much life in a long time.

Then came tap, which was equally exhausting. It was only an hour and a half of combinations, taught by a very quiet woman—though it was apparent from the start that she knew what she was doing—but my feet hurt in a way they hadn't in a while.

I tried to focus on myself as I had during ballet, but every so often my eyes peeled away from my own steps to Cal or Maven's. The latter proved to be one of the best in the class, far more at ease than his brother. While Maven excels in tap shoes, Cal's . . . uncharacteristically mediocre. I wouldn't go so far as to call him bad, but he didn't stand out the way he did in ballet.

As soon as class began, Maven took a place at the front line without asking. Cal went to the second line, a few places to his brother's left.

And I saw Iris, the only girl I remotely know at the Academy, and politely settled in the spot next to her back another row.

Weird, how the Academy stresses its dancers practice more than one genre. But again, it's hardly the first time I've noticed what a weird, strange—however successful—institution it is. From the little I know about professional ballet companies, dancers practice ballet for eight, ten hours a day, year-round. They don't bother with tap or jazz or anything else, yet the Academy does, claiming it's good for their dancers.

But Sara—Sara Skonos, tap extraordinaire who likes to be called by her first name—told us newbies that tap makes us stronger, whether or not it's our "major." _Strengthens the legs, loosens up those crunched, painful ankles, makes for a good sense of timing_ , she explained curtly. _If you know how to tap, you should continue with it as long as you can_. Though from what I've heard, tap's a dying art. I don't know how the Academy's profiting from it.

Perhaps that's the Academy's secret, aside from Elara's talk of theatrics and gusto. Dancing jazz and tap works parts of our bodies that we otherwise wouldn't, and it offers a change of focus for a few hours a day. My schedule won't stay like this for long anyway: when early September rolls around in five weeks, I'll be back to ballet and nothing else.

The jazz and hip hop class was another story. The people I danced with were good, great, and clearly knew a thing or two about their craft. Including Cal. Any memory I had of his tap dancing was quickly washed away.

Apparently the Academy holds a lot of contracts with different Broadway shows and lends out their dancers on a regular basis. Academy jazz and hip hop majors travel worldwide as backup dancers for bands and singers, and they're sold out as choreographers and teachers at high-level studios. Each and every one of them is highly sought after in New York, and directors on Broadway and managers of singers are eager and willing to pay for the Academy's services.

I got to dance with those people last night. And again tonight, and so on.

Julian Jacos said as much at the start of class. For the next five weeks, the ballet majors get to partake in his class and learn from the best of the best how to _point our feet, but not so hard,_ and I quote. _It'll be good for you all. Loosen up for once! Just a little!_

Loosen up. Pfft.

Like tap, it was another combination class, but chock-full of leaps, turns, and as it transitioned to hip hop, more angled legs and arms. I silently cringed.

I can't say it didn't loosen me up, though, my shoulders too stiff after holding them back all day. To move my rib cage in and out felt oddly freeing after keeping it tucked inward all day. And wearing nothing but a pair of black socks for shoes had me completely out of my mind and element— not to mention sorry for the fact that Maven had spent money on jazz shoes I'll never wear.

After class, I headed back to my room and fixed myself dinner, the growls prominent in my stomach during jazz.

I took a shower. I went to bed, no later than nine.

I could've gone out, just to say I finally spent an evening alone in the thick of the city. Hell, I could've slumped on the couch in my loft and watched TV. I honestly can't remember the last time I sat down and watched anything other than the news.

Sighing, I return to the present and _tendu_ my foot forward. With the sun hiding below the horizon, I've turned the lights on a low, dull setting, though they're almost useless. The studio Lucas got me happens to be Julian's, a corner studio on the fourth floor with views of enough neon signs outside to blind. If only for my eyes, having to look at the blinding pinks and greens and blues, I thank Tiberias Calore for keeping the signs off his building.

A hand balanced at my hip, I work through my _tendues_ , stretching my leg forward, to the side, back, and again. On this fine morning, I wear a pair of baggy workout pants, a sweatshirt, and pointe shoes, already out of my flats.

A few people wander around outside, either with nowhere to go or else up excruciatingly early for work. They're specks from here, tiny black ants half-hidden in the shadows of buildings. No clue I'm watching them as the Academy's dancers once could've watched me.

Finished with the exercises on one side, I swivel around myself, so my right side is closest to the barre and I'm facing the mirror, and—

"Oh," we say in concert, blinking.

As if we're in the elevator again, I stare at Cal in the mirror. He returns my gaze, stuffing a hand in his pocket.

I glanced past him as I turned from the window to the mirror, dismissing him as a shadow, though the lights chase any darkness to the room's margins.

I'd blame him for being at a loss for words, but so am I. In my well-worn sweatshirt and my hair in a knot with strands all over the place . . . I have nothing to say to him, even as we both turn from our respective spots towards the mirror to each other, live and in the flesh.

Cal's on his way for a run—or in the midst of a run, from his slightly-flushed expression—in a T-shirt, shorts, and shoes. He either hasn't combed his hair today or ran his hands through it repeatedly, because it sticks up in crude directions around his head. His bronze eyes, questioning, lock with mine—

"Lucas told me I could have the room—"

"I just had to get my—"

"For an hour and a half—"

"Keys."

One, two blinks.

"Oh," we both say.

The tension so heavy you could weigh it, born out of virtually nothing, suffocates the room's air supply.

When he says no more, I return my attention to the barre and start on my left side. I'll fidget otherwise. I brace my free hand on my hip as I draw out my foot and point it. Again and again and again.

In the mirror, Cal loiters for a heartbeat before he backtracks to a second door in the room, opens it, and vanishes inside.

I let go of a sigh. Oblivious to my social-clumsiness, my feet carry on in their rhythm until I'm finished with my feet warm-ups.

It's early in the morning. More or less, I look like shit. Those are the best reasons I can come up with for whatever's happened before my eyes.

"You realize it's not even six and you're in pointe shoes, right?" Cal remarks from the separate room that must be Julian's office, though Blonos and Elara's studios have no such thing. Shifting sounds from a bag come through the half-ajar door, and then a metallic jingle.

Pinching my lips to avoid grinning like an idiot drunk on ballet, I bow my head in agreement as Cal reappears. Yes, I have a vague sense it's about six o'clock, but the more I think about it, the more depressing it seems. "I went to bed early. What else am I supposed to do at this hour?" I drawl, resting my elbows on the barre and flaring out my fingertips as if to say, _I don't have anything better to do, Cal_.

He scoffs, an easy movement that has me rolling my eyes. A portion of his grey shirt at the neckline is a darker shade than the rest of the material, another testimony to his workout. Along with his face, though the flush evaporates off it as we speak. _Oh, please. You've been up longer than me_.

Cal reads my disbelief and tilts his head. "It gets too hot if I go running any later," he argues lightly, throwing up an arm to gesture outside. "It's already eighty degrees outside, and the sun isn't even out."

"The heat's disgusting," I say, shaking my head. Yet as gross as it was, I made a habit of running three or four times a week this summer too, down the expanse of trails in Central Park or in the less-busy sects of the city. I'd usually go early, but not to the extremes of Cal; I'd at least wait until the sun had been out for a half an hour. "But as far as I know, it's not letting up anytime soon."

Wretched small talk, no better than the heatwave. Even as Cal and I _talk_ , I rise up on pointe and come down, another set of repetitions.

A ring of keys in his hand, his other hand shoved in his pocket, Cal says, "I don't think I mind it as much as everybody else in New York. Then again, I've spent most of my summer either at my dad's business or here. I only get out at night and in the morning."

I first met Cal under the cover of a dank old East Harlem bar, nearly five miles north of the Academy and all of Central Park between the former and the latter. He was _just_ standing there, in a pair of baggy jeans and a black hoodie obscuring his dancer's body. Almost as if he was waiting for someone, maybe a girlfriend his parents don't approve of or a group of edgy friends.

"Yet when you get out, you go far, don't you?"

Raising my eyebrows, I silently ask him the question I never got around to: _What business does a rich guy like you have in East Harlem? What were you doing at the GrAveyard that night?_

He's not old enough to drink legally, though that's never stopped anyone. But Cal doesn't strike me as somebody who goes drinking by himself.

He offers a crooked smile, showing his teeth. I settle my feet into fifth position. My stance tells him everything he needs to know: I'll wait.

"It's not what you think," he states in a low tone. Simply. The neon lights outside pirouette in his eyes along with the golden lights overhead.

I can't help but chuckle. "No, Cal. I haven't been able to figure out why you might enjoy loitering outside of dumpy bars."

While my words are humorous, Cal's face melts into anything but. His jaw works and his eyes flick to the floor in search of a response.

"As much as I love Manhattan, being in the heart of it every day of my life becomes sickening after a while."

I hold my tongue in spite of how many things I could say. He's not wrong; there's not a place in Midtown where silence can be found, and I've rarely crossed Times Square without bumping into a sightseer's shoulder—accidentally or on purpose. But my part of town comes with its own array of problems, including a high theft rate, poverty, violence . . . I don't understand why he'd find peace in East Harlem, of all places.

How ironic. I've waited my entire life to get out, and Cal willingly went there one night.

"I had the evening off, so I took a ride." Cal shakes his keys for emphasis. "Down through Midtown, all the way to the tip of the Financial District. You can imagine how slow it was. I came back up through Chinatown and Little Italy, got onto FDR Drive . . . and rode right past the turnoff for my apartment in Hell's Kitchen."

He takes a deep breath, through his nose and out his mouth, remembering. I consider his story thoughtfully, more than a little curious of what forces drove him to the bar the night we met.

"It wasn't one of my brightest ideas, but I parked my motorcycle on an avenue in your neighborhood. I left it for five minutes. And when I came back . . ."

Another laugh. I've never laughed so much so early.

As I said: high theft rates. I almost keel over and fall to the ground laughing.

Somewhere in the background, Cal's snipping at me: _It's not funny_.

It's kind of funny.

"Did you at least park it on a street with decent lighting? Maybe next to an open shop?"

The words come when my laughter's died down and faded to a manic grin. Everybody's made their own mistakes in East Harlem, from walking in the wrong shadows to forgetting to lock their car doors at night. But Cal's motorcycle . . . it's undoubtedly worth a fortune, and any crook, regardless of whether or not there were people around watching, would try their hand at hotwiring the thing.

"Both, yes."

His admission only increases the hilarity of the situation. I choke down the rest of my laughter. "You never leave nice things out on the streets. Never."

"Would you like me to finish my story, Mare?"

"I would like that very much, Cal."

Having successfully gotten under his skin, as he's done to me, I mentally pat myself on the back. Playful irritation graces his features, but nothing serious; I assume that his family was able to track down his cycle, or else he bought a new one. His keys unlock something, after all.

He takes a few steps closer to me, leaving a decent fifteen feet between us. It felt closer than that until I notice. With sunrise fast approaching, the sky's turned from a rich, dark blue to a lighter shade, ice, while the room's buttery lights fade.

"You'll roll your eyes at this—"

I roll my eyes.

Cal continues.

"But I went for a walk. I left my motorcycle on a street corner like some fool, and I went for a walk." _Because you wanted to see how the other half lives. Get out of the chaos of Midtown only to be met with under kind of madness._ "When I came back it was gone. I called my dad, and he sent Lucas to come and give me a ride home. By that point, I wasn't interested in _walking around_ anymore, so I waited outside of the bar. I probably wouldn't have noticed you slip right past me if my guard hadn't already been up."

How I wound up here . . . turns out to be the cause of another thief. Ironic.

"Did you get it back?"

"Yeah. The NYPD was all over it. They found it in a storage locker in Queens. I got it back the morning before you auditioned."

"That's good." Though the effort put into the search for Cal's motorcycle . . . I really don't need to think about it. If I put in a note to the police concerning a stolen vehicle, I could save enough money to buy a new one before the pigs would find it. Cal's family probably has ties to the police like the Cygnets do.

Yellow breaks down the street, meaning dawn has come. Sensing this conversation between us has come to an end, I grip the barre tightly. "I'm sorry. I've probably messed up your run."

Cal notices the sun too, an impending doom now that it's out. The buildings will keep streets shady for a while, but I imagine the temperature rising as we speak nonetheless.

"Hardly. Talking to you more than likely burns calories, Mare Barrow." He uses my full name, and I can't help but cringe.

 _Don't call me that_.

I almost say it out loud. Barrow. The last name I share with my family, the people I abandoned. Again, I push that thought away.

"You have no idea. How similarly I feel." Cal's set me off more than once, from the time I fell from the rafters and he rose from his seat, in essence ordering me to audition, to the time he—well, I suppose he's only really pissed me off once, and that was for my own benefit. "But for what it's worth, have a good run. Or whatever's left of it."

He smirks and nods, and our conversation laps into awkward silence again. Limply, I stand at the barre, not wanting to begin anything new until Cal's gone.

Almost reluctantly, I'd call it if we knew one another better, Cal turns on his heel. I watch every movement, from the way his shoulders are drawn up too high to his slow, deliberate steps. Offering me plenty of breaths to drag this conversation on.

Cal makes it all of five steps towards the door before stopping.

Without a look at me, he states a fact, not a question: "They're wasting their time having you dance in the Corps."

I don't say anything. With Cal's back to me, I allow myself a long, steadying blink. _Years and years_.

"We'll see," I say so he doesn't start down this road.

Hearing the reluctance in my voice, Cal glances at me quickly. My steely expression and poised back reveal nothing.

"Have a good day, Mare."

"You too, Cal," I say when he's no longer in the room.


	22. Chapter 22

I hold my first paycheck in my hands a week later.

A fair-sized envelope was presented to me by Lucas after jazz last night, with a knock on my loft door and a kind smile.

For a moment, I stared at his outstretched hand and the paper between his fingers, before understanding what Lucas was offering me and snatching—not too eagerly—the envelope from him.

Then I realized the number penned on the check inside was irrelevant, since I didn't have a bank account, nor any method to acquire one by myself.

"I . . ." I haphazardly ripped open the envelope anyway, and I found my name, the signature of Tiberias Calore, and a sum of money so large that my eyes bugged. "I don't have a checking account."

Any normal person would argue for me to sign the back of the check and hand it over to my parents the next time I visited them, but Lucas did no such thing. Whether Maven had told a few people about my circumstances, or Lucas was perceptive enough to understand, he only tightened his smile.

"I'm sure I can something set up," he said and asked for an I.D. card. That was that.

This afternoon, he returned with a debit card and a set of directions to the bank he'd set me up at. I didn't ask how he'd managed to do it without either of my parent's consent, a birth certificate, a social security number, or even having me present. I stood at my door, bewildered, but took the card and my returned I.D., along with some documents.

With that, Lucas and I went our separate ways, Lucas back out into the world while I returned to my loft. _And that was that_.

The documents include a fresh copy of my birth certificate, I notice now as I flip through the pile of papers in between classes. The rest are from the new bank, just informational and nothing I have to read thoroughly or sign.

Between these and the debit card . . . everything I need to be a fine and proper adult.

It should terrify and unnerve me how Lucas was able to obtain a new birth certificate and an account at the bank for a minor he's not related to. The Calores had to be involved in it somehow, whatever weaseling Lucas went through today.

It's rather apparent their reaches extend far, if they held sway over the police department when Cal's motorcycle went missing. Plus, _investments and finance,_ after all _._ Maybe they have a connection at the bank, or own the bank for that matter. Yet it doesn't explain the birth certificate . . .

None of it seems especially legal, but it's not hurting anyone. Without a bank account, this check would be no good; no good for me and no good for my parents when I send half of the money home. So I won't worry about the means by which Lucas did this. I won't think about it, as long as it benefits me and my family.

I hold up the check again, The cream paper glints in the evening light of my bedroom and reads over a thousand dollars. With all of this money, I'll not only compensate for my pickpocketing and pay for my weekly necessities, but I'll also start putting away money for myself.

For some sort of future.

* * *

The dancers _turn and turn and turn_.

I myself feel dizzy while I watch them as they at last plunge down from their turns into a classic lunge, switch feet, and roll out of it.

Pop music that I've never heard and don't listen to filters into my ears from surround sound, almost loud enough to bother me. Given the years Julian's been doing this, I have to wonder how he hasn't gone deaf.

I divert my attention from the choreography—which I'll be performing soon enough—to Julian, standing at one of the four corners in the room, the one where the two glass walls meet.

He has to be in his forties, with his chestnut brown hair streaked with grey. Age has not been kind to him. His ordinary yet keen eyes are brown, and he has the complexion of somebody who doesn't go outside often. Round face, thinning eyebrows . . . Julian is the complete package for an older middle-aged man, but there's something more. He carries a wisdom about him.

Maybe it's his strange outfit: a tan cardigan and cuffed-off capris of the same color. He wears a plain black T-shirt under the ensemble, but the red scarf he's knotted around his neck offsets the basic colors. For the week I've been dancing in Julian's class, he's barely danced, but worn black jazz shoes every day. Today's no exception.

A couple of days ago, I heard one of the girls I sat by tell her friend about Julian and the opera. Apparently, aside from his devotion to modern dance, he's also a talented singer whom few theatres would reject back in the day. Yet in recent years, he's toned it back to focus on his history and philosophy teachings at New York University, still spending about five hours at the Academy a day.

I garnered all that from a measly one-minute blabbering conversation. Regardless, he sounds like a successful man, but somebody who prefers to watch from the sidelines now, having tired of the spotlight.

"Good job girls," Julian says as the track ends, clapping his hands together. Everybody else gathered follows him, and the claps fade out after five seconds.

Unlike Blonos or Elara, Julian compliments just about everyone. He smiles, close-mouthed, as the three girls who finished their performance sit down in the circle again, and another pair of dancers rise.

His studio shares little in common with the ballet studios, unless you count that they're both rooms with floors and walls. The lighting is warmer and duller than it is in Blonos and Elara's studios, as if the two women are intent on never missing a mistake and Julian's okay with letting an error slide once in a while. He has photographs of his past dancers hung up on walls, miniature versions of the massive canvases outside. And Julian has us sit in a giant circle around the room when we aren't learning or dancing, just so that _every angle of a dance will be seen_.

Currently, I sit criss-cross-applesauce next to Maven in the circle. He stares ahead passively, waiting for the next group to begin like most of the others.

A few pick up side conversations between acts, something that nobody would _ever_ consider doing in ballet. But Julian only shifts his weight from foot to foot in the corner, on the opposite side of the room.

Maven notices my glance, and he turns towards me with an inquiring brow. "Yeah?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm excited to dance, that's all."

I've watched Maven in ballet and tap and jazz all week. He's good, I'll say that. At seventeen, he's one of the best tap dancers at the Academy, and just as good as I am at turns, leaps, and everything else. He holds his own . . . and yet . . .

His brother's across the room from us, a group of guys on one side of him and a group of girls on the other. None of them speak to him, including the girls, to my dismay; they all think of him as a legend for his age. And the girls . . . the girls. While the guys more than likely want to be Cal, the girls . . . oh, the girls. They glance at him every five seconds, whispering into one another's ears ideas and thoughts I probably don't want to hear about.

Safe to say that corner of the room contains the most teenagers.

Though I've been watching Cal too, both when he's dancing and when he isn't. Not because of romantic interest, but because he merely intrigues me. Ever the star of attention, there's something magnetizing about the way he dances; he pours his entire soul into it, like every time he dances it'll be the last time. I've seen it both in ballet and here. Aside from his flawless technique that I can only dream of acquiring, there's this _thing_ about him. I can't define what it is, but . . . it makes him stand out. Worth watching.

I already mentioned what I see when he isn't dancing.

"Me too," Maven says breathlessly, drawing me back to him. "The song's good tonight."

Nodding, I agree, in spite of the fact that I can't recall its name. Back at home, I rarely listened to music, aside from the seventies rock Dad had on from time to time, and the two-thousand's pop Mom had a strange affinity for. Bree and Tramy listen to whatever they listen to in their room, and Gisa's the one who always has the phone.

At my studio, it was either classical music or pop, none of this ultra-new electronic stuff.

God, I sound like an old woman. Julian appears to be more with the times than me.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is," I say even after my nod.

I've had little time to talk with Maven since classes began—in fact, the conversation I had with Cal on Tuesday beats out any of the conversations I've had with Maven this week in length—but I did find out a bit about our partnership following an intense tap class on Wednesday.

Maven and I are partners in the Corps de Ballet. We'll rarely dance together, Maven admitted, saying that we'll start practicing as a pair in technique class when the schedule changes, and perhaps—perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, we'll dance as background courtiers or revelers in performance or two this year.

I like Maven. He's down-to-earth, personable . . . the opposite of everything I expected after our first interaction. I've never danced with a partner before, but with him, I would feel comfortable to begin.

The term "partner" is a formality more than anything else, a promise that in the coming years we'll dance together. Like an arranged marriage, almost. I laugh at the thought.

Though it's not totally a joke, especially between Cal and Evangeline. Evangeline's talk with her mother still rings in my ears sometimes, how they spoke like becoming Cal's partner was life or death. But she got the part, after being for all intents and purposes threatened by her mother. As though her family would disown Evangeline if she failed.

Like an arranged marriage. Truly.

All this time, while I've glanced from Maven to Cal, in attempts to understand the two brothers, I've also followed the dancing. Since the trio of girls sat down, a guy and a girl have entered and left the circle, along with a set of girls. Throughout my pondering, I still manage to analyze their movements and the ease brought with them—accompanied by the low sun filtering between buildings and the calm, self-effacing lights of the studio.

The jazz and hip hop majors range in age similarly to the Corps, anywhere from eighteen to edging on their forties. I take great entertainment in breaking down their movements, almost frame by frame, to at last discover the secret in how they manage to appear so relaxed as they dance, yet with so much technique.

Julian hasn't called me out on it, but I'm too stiff. I know it for a fact, and ballet's to blame. While pointe's made me light on my feet and have exemplary posture, Julian doesn't care. For hip hop, during the second half of class especially, he likes us to slouch and stomp like inept brutes—sorry.

That was rude.

But it's difficult, bending my knees when I usually wouldn't, turning without a turnout, and sometimes being so heavy and limp. I did take these types of classes back at the studio, but they weren't as carefree and easy, and the instructor happened to also be the lead ballet teacher. On top of that, I haven't put in nearly the amount of effort in keeping up with jazz and hip hop as I have with ballet, nearly forgetting about the genres some days.

Would Blonos want me to _loosen up_? Sara and Julian have both claimed it's good for us ballet dancers, but I wonder if she'd agree. What about Elara? Tiberias suggested it too.

A new figure approaches the center of the circle.

I look up from my interlaced hands to find Cal's spot across the room vacant, and Cal himself standing up, taking his last few steps to his beginning position.

All alone. Whenever we've done this sort of thing during jazz, Cal's always gone alone. A few others do as well, but the vast majority of the class picks a partner or two for our performances. Moral support, Julian calls it with a chuckle.

He faces my side of the room, eyes pinned on the wall above my head.

Without further ado, the track plays once more.

I'll die before I admit it, but Cal makes the less stringent genres of dance more appealing to watch and learn. Somehow, he's managed to find control in the total chaos I've found in this class.

Delightful and totally stressful chaos.

Today's dance is fast but methodical, and Cal sinks into a wide second position— _not turned out_ —with utter focus on his face. The mood of the dance isn't of hope or joy or sadness or despair: it's almost a madness, every person who's yet performed looking like they just broke out of an insane asylum. Cal's no different, his eyes holding a quiet wickedness, and a concentration behind that, while he stares over my head. I half expect him to tilt his chin down and wink at me, considering it wouldn't be so out of character for him.

After the first eight counts, he begins the same dance I've seen a dozen times prior to this. Within it, there aren't many skills that demand flexibility, but Cal being the way he is makes everything eye-catching whether it's a big or small gesture, easy or difficult.

The dance starts out with him pulling his body side to side, reaching his arms out, and slouching his spine in. I'd cringe if Cal did it without complete confidence, without owning it completely.

So comes a series of steps that are plainly and shamelessly modern. With every note is a new step, if not two or three, Cal twisting around himself to set up for a turn.

Doubletime. Ten _a la secondes_ instead of five, and he settles into a lunge, switches feet, and rolls. Identical to the other groups, but—

With an arch of his back in the midst of getting up, his shirt rides up the slightest bit, exposing a tanned, muscled abdomen—

I find myself watching his reflection in the adjacent mirror instead to lessen any risk of eye contact, though he's absorbed in his dance up to the hilt, probably not even seeing the people gathered around him. Who also watch intently, I see from the glass: backdropped by the growing darkness of evening and the electric lights outside, men and women alike trace Cal's movements, knowing eyes wandering from one side of the room to the other with him.

The song slows, and so does Cal. The combination itself is barely a minute long, now with slower, dramatized movements. Julian likes this kind of stuff. Sudden shifts of speed and emotion and whatever.

Cal ends up on his side on the floor at one point or another. If it was somebody untrained, the collapse would be messy and unplanned, but with him, it's ruggedly tasteful as he descends, slapping his palms against the floor.

Any tiredness from the intensive routine is masked well, and Cal's face remains calm, if not a little cold while wrapped up in his current persona. Granted, Julian blasts the air conditioning in his room harder than most, giving into his fear of heatstroke before his concern for our muscles—he said so himself—and with the sun perched at a low angle, Manhattan is cooling down anyway.

Quickly, I glance to my new instructor, who tracks Cal like the others, but with a small, tentative smile to his lips. Julian hasn't ceased standing in the corner like a statue, content to observe and comment from afar when he isn't teaching. Still, when Cal's up, I always notice how Julian leans forward a number of subtle inches, in hope of getting the slightest better look.

Maybe Cal is Julian's _little protégé_. Though Cal's an easy six inches taller than Julian.

Claps reverberate around the room, modest and no louder than the rounds before. While I watched Julian again, Cal finished up the last counts of the combination unbeknownst to me. Now, he exits the circle, without so much as a bow of his head, and sits down where he had been before.

Without delay, the claps die out, and Julian nods to me and Maven. He's come up with a random order for all of the groups to go in and somehow keeps track of us in his head.

I smile coolly at Maven and push myself off the floor, as does he. Schooling my face into a killing calm, I settle into a wide second halfway across the floor.

Not turned out.

* * *

 _The bank's open late on Saturdays, don't ask me why_ , Maven said after I told him about my check. Then he offered to walk me the few blocks downtown separating the Academy and the bank, and I accepted, returning to my room to change into street clothes.

It's cooled off enough that I wear jeans, rolled at the ankles. Maven walks alongside me in similar attire, hands shoved in his back pockets. Still seventy, but the weather hasn't been so kind since the rain storm on the night of announcements. And I'm not the only one taking advantage of the reprieve: plenty along the street wear full-length pants and long-sleeved shirts when lately, the only people who have worn such things have been businessmen and women of New York.

"Tell me: what do you usually do on Saturday nights?" I ask, holding my small purse close to my body. This can't possibly be what his excitement is on the weekends.

Just past the Academy's doors at the intersection, Maven chuckles, scuffing his shoe on cement. We just missed the walk sign.

"For everything that my father is, I have an extraordinarily boring life outside of the Academy." He says it shamelessly and with a shrug.

"Can't be more boring than mine. I haven't left the Academy all week, besides for another trip to that expensive grocery store a block away." I point down the way towards Bryant Park and the library, shivering as I remember the prices.

I have the funds for it and no intention of hauling my groceries through a subway station, so I begrudgingly used more of my Wall Street savings this week to restock my fridge with organic goods. That's Midtown for you, though.

"Hmm," Maven murmurs and shifts his hands from his back to his front pockets. "I'll probably go over to Cal's apartment later." Maven points the opposite direction that I did, towards the Hudson River. "We'll hang out, continue our endeavor to make it through all twenty-three Marvel films. Then I'll go home," he continues, this time pointing north towards Central Park, "and do my physics homework."

The stop sign blares on. Pedestrians are growing anxious, tapping their feet and pulling phones out of bags to check the time.

With whatever jealousy exists between Maven and Cal, a brotherly companionship does too. As much as I love Gisa, she and I never connected, not fully. The closest I've ever come to what Maven describes with Cal would've been Shade. But even he left and—

The echo of an explosion followed by a whining noise pierces the air.

The shrill pitch worms into my ears, ringing over all the conversations on the block. It doesn't take long for those conversations to stop altogether.

I whirl around myself, looking for the source of the sound. For the infant who's ticked off, or the firetruck shrieking down the way. But it's near, no more than a block away. The explosion can't be explained by such things. And I see no sniffling kids at the intersection, no flashing emergency lights.

At first, it could be mistaken for a crying child or a siren, but the note goes on for too long, grows too high and far away as I struggle to find where it's coming from. It sounds like a bomb, but instead of coming down it . . . goes up.

"What the . . ." Maven trails off and cranes his neck skyward.

The glow of Times Square and the surrounding skyscrapers dulls most stars, making for a plain, dark-blue sky. No sign of the moon, either. The walk sign still makes no appearance. Others at the curb look up now, sensing that whatever's making the awful sound isn't at eye-level, but ascending higher and higher above.

Just swaths of indigo, broken up by the apexes of buildings and their antennas. Squares of neon advertisements that can leave stars in your eyes. The occasional yellow street light, though it's hardly needed.

A man holds up his cellphone camera, angling it almost parallel to the street. "That ain't no bird," he says in a rich southern accent. A tourist.

I follow his camera, taking a few steps backward, almost crashing into Maven in the process. I tilt my head farther up, past the advertisements, past the skyscrapers. Past everything.

Indeed, a red flare blinks stories and stories above the street, climbing still.

"Hell."

Confusion crosses Maven's face. "What?"

"What the hell? I finished your sentence."

Whatever it is, at the very least it's going away from us. The red flare was launched from nearby, judging from the soft explosion and whining that's growing softer and softer.

Something tells me the walk sign is never coming.

Traffic lights are red, all four directions.

People are getting loud, having gone from talking at the normal rowdy volume of the neighborhood to silence to clamorous yelling. The southern man's exited his camera app and has dial pad on his screen. I see his fingers type out each number.

 _911_.

Every police station in Manhattan will see the flare. A call will serve no purpose.

I look up in time to see the red beacon explode.

Into a magnificent circle of red. A dark red, the color of garnet, of blood, not exhausting to look at the way the advertisements are. Within the outline of the circle are jagged shapes, like a very torn up and obliterated leaf. Or a very strange and crippled flower.

It puts the skyscrapers' height and steely fury to shame, soaring above the tallest one in sight by a hundred feet.

"Who the hell got clearance to set off _that_ in Midtown?" Maven asks. The question sounds stupid, but I remember he doesn't know what it is.

That's right. It's nothing more than a pretty design to Maven Calore and the other denizens of Time Square, who slap one another on the shoulder and laugh it off. The traffic lights return to normal and the walk sign flickers on.

But what would be the context? The symbol, quickly dissolving, a very ephemeral sort of beauty, doesn't make sense to anyone who hasn't seen it before. It's not as though a business or the city decided to set off a massive red firework in the heart of Midtown.

"Who says they got clearance for it?" I try to keep the concern, the graveness from my voice.

Maven snorts. "How could anybody illegally buy and set off a firework that big?"

Great question. Then again: how could anybody break into Cygnet Hydrotech and steal millions worth of tech? How could anybody hack into a major news network?

The red's faded into smoke. Harmless, meaningless smoke.

I remember the tattoo on Farley's neck so well. The black ink making up the circle . . . the red flower petals within . . . the firework was a match.

"I know who," I say weakly, more than likely stupidly. "The Street Fighters." Their motto brays in my head.

 _Rise, Red as the Dawn_.


	23. Chapter 23

I hope that in these hard times, everybody's finding their way of coping with social isolation and possible loss of loved ones. Whether or not you've been directly impacted by the COVID-19 virus, my thoughts go out to all of my readers and your families. I hope you can find some happiness to your day in my writing. :)

As most of you have, I've had a lot of time off due to the virus. I've made a lot of changes to the first part of my fanfiction, a list that I will later be posting on my Wattpad profile. Now that I have fully edited my story to my liking, I will be posting at least once a week; let's go with every Saturday and a potential second update in the middle of the week.

* * *

 _Part 2 — The Rise of the Fighters_

"So your family's been in the Hamptons _all week_ , and you've been in your penthouse _all alone_?" I ask Maven to clarify, spaghetti noodles dangling off my fork.

Maven only shrugs. "More or less. Our security guards might as well be family, so my parents have had a few extra stay in the guest bedrooms. Some of my friends from my old school and their parents offered to take me in for the week, but my mom wanted me at home. She knows how _they_ can be."

Crossing my legs at the ankle, I sit back in my chair at the restaurant Maven and I walked to for lunch. It's become a tradition of ours to go out once a week, ever since we discovered the two of us have more in common than one would think.

Save for the first time, we always come to a consensus on where we go and split the bill in half. Today we decided on a crowded Italian restaurant bedecked in wooden chairs, brick walls, and hanging lights, sandwiched smack in the middle of Times Square. For all that this neighborhood is, the restaurant is a simple one, though Maven's told me it has the best pasta I'll ever eat.

"What?" I say. "Are the boys there that bad?" Though I suppose I don't need to ask, considering Maven went to one of the most elite private schools in the state until he had to switch online to manage dance. Rich boys are always spending up their money the usual way: parties, drugs, and sex.

He shakes his head, but his cringe indicates otherwise. "I don't think they're . . . that bad, but my parents do. I'm not sure who else they expected me to make friends with at that school, though. They're all full of themselves and spend their every breath trying to impress each other so they make it into the right social circle by the time they graduate. It's pathetic."

Though I've lived in Midtown for almost two months, his lifestyle is still the most foreign thing. The way Maven talks about the parts of his week I don't see—his old prep school, the studies at Columbia he crammed in before he became a Corps dancer, the galas and dinners he's been forced to attend over the years, his father's _dynasty_ —makes it all seem like something out of a fiction novel half the time. But the other half . . . I swallow another forkful of spaghetti, laden with fresh tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella cheese, and smile at him.

We usually steer clear of conversations regarding our backgrounds, both an eternally-sore spot. As I work for the Calores, I should probably know more about Maven's family and their business, and one of these days, I'll tell him about Dad and my bad habit of pickpocketing, but lately we've spent most of our time discussing dance and arguing over baseball. I scramble for a response, attempting to come up with something that won't sound entirely stupid.

"You and your brother never had to impress anyone? Shouldn't Cal have been making business allies since the day he could talk, heir to your father's company and whatever?' The words sound casual, easy, even as every one feels absurd on my tongue.

Maven, too, resorts to taking a bite of his own pasta to allow him some time. Then a swig of water. He unfolds the black linen napkin to wipe nonexistent scraps of food from his face.

It's the last week of summer in the eyes of most New Yorkers, and soon enough this sweaty nightmare of a season will be just that: a long-gone fever dream. Temperatures have dropped to the low seventies, and kids are going back to school. The Academy dancers have gotten the week off; the Calores celebrate the end of summer like it's Christmas, and as according to Maven, have retreated to the South Fork of Long Island. _The Hamptons_.

He mentioned it quickly when I asked where the rest of his family has been all week. Though the Academy's nearly empty with the ten-day break, I would've thought the Calores would be around prepping for the coming torrent of choreography and rehearsals. But no. Every night this week, they've hosted a lavish party at their estate—fifteen acres, Maven said, though it meant nothing to him—for Tiberias Calore's various partners and big-name clients and other friends.

Apparently, it's the event of the year for the high-society of Manhattan and restarts every evening for another round, and naturally, it's the _most exclusive_ gathering and only the richest and most famous make it in. A chance for the Calores to solidify new relations with potential partners and whatnot, all over glasses of the finest wines and hors d'oeuvres.

Or so Maven told me. I wouldn't know the first thing about business or gourmet food.

The only reason he isn't there is because of Columbia, where he decided to undertake a week-long summer immersion program, just because he knew he'd have the time off. So I guess I can't blame his parents for leaving him ninety minutes away. This time anyway.

"I would imagine Cal's bracing himself for another long evening of talking to the other guys and girls his age set to inherit their parents' companies." Maven looks up from his napkin and laughs a little. "But not really, no. The other boys were the ones trying to impress us at their parents' behests—though Cal got the brunt of it, heir to Calore Industries and all."

Tiberias Calore puts the rich to shame and has them groveling on their knees. I'd be impressed if I didn't hate the idea so much.

When I don't respond, Maven mutters, "I can't believe you haven't just Googled my family. Those search results are insane."

I raise a brow. "Who says I haven't?"

"You ask too many questions to have stalked us," he says it bluntly, smirking. "And since you've made it this far, I suggest you don't. You'll get scared, trust me."

Somehow, I believe him. I've had plenty of time this week to venture back to the library to do some research, but part of me doesn't care nor want to know exactly how _well-off_ Maven's family is. Rich-as-shit is a broad spectrum, especially to people like Ann and me, and could entail a lot of different numbers. Besides: knowing some statistics on the Calores isn't going to change what I'm doing at the Academy or make me feel any different about them. Rich is rich, isn't it?

Even though the look Maven gives me suggests otherwise.

"My father makes the Forbes list for America's top-hundred richest men, if that helps."

It does, but I don't register it. Not as I see that shift in his eyes and the bobble in his throat. He's thinking about it again.

Five weeks have passed since the night of the Street's Fighters' display. The government and the police have done a magnificent job of covering it up; they played it off as a "test firework" for some upcoming festival, but anyone who actually recognizes the emblem would think it sounds like the stupidest notion in the world. Then there's the media, who either don't have enough evidence to investigate or just turn the act into a heartfelt story about the city giving back to the community. The reporters spent all of five minutes covering it on the local news before returning to their usual squabble.

Five weeks, and I haven't heard "Scarlet Street Fighters" once. I've been running around myself, pointing fingers at the government, the reporters, _them_ , and finally myself. The NYPD continues their hunt for the so-called terrorists, but their fervor in the case has died down and it's beginning to look like a dead-end in spite of the fireworks stunt. I wish I could just drop it, pretend that they aren't going to pop up again with a new threat next week. But they could. They will, eventually.

In a panicked fit, I told Maven everything.

I started with the apartment gossip I've heard over the years about the Street Fighters. Until I explained it aloud, their insane vigilante plots sounded like smoke and mirrors in my head—and entirely pointless when I've never heard news of them having a successful hit—but when I said it to Maven . . . their cause started to sound real and I started to understand why they exist. Everybody knows there are corrupt businesses hiding in every corner of this city, and I have no doubt they've wronged plenty.

Then Shade. Hard as it was, I told Maven how my brother up and left my family last year with no explanation. _My mom thinks he's in a gang_ , I muttered, continuing on to say I didn't believe it until I read his latest letter and heard the closing line of Diana Farley's message.

 _My friend Kilorn left too_ , I said, then backtracked to my run-in with the Street Fighters' figurehead, Diana Farley, and my local grocer—and Farley's personal informant. That was when I saw the tattoo inked onto her neck, hidden just below the collar of her jacket.

"Maven . . ." I warn him, glancing around the packed restaurant. The lady at the table behind me is within an easy earshot, our backs only a few feet apart.

Just having heard the name Diana Farley could get me into unimaginable trouble, and I'm lucky enough Maven's kept his mouth shut; I had to talk him down from going straight to the police to order Will Whistle's arrest all those weeks ago. He's worried for his family more than anything else. _Cygnet Hydrotech got hit, and my father's never heard anything about them being the least-bit underhanded. They're not even going after the corrupt, Mare. They're just going after corporations. And Calore Industries is double the size of Orrec Cygnet's company._

"Five weeks," Maven still says, but he keeps his voice down and leans closer. "That's longer the time between the attacks and the fireworks. What if they're planning something big and we have information on it?"

I have various reasons justifying why I haven't gone to the police myself. If Will's tight with Farley . . . one chat between the police and him could have the Scarlet Street Fighters out of commission. But as much as I want Shade and Kilorn out, I don't want them in prison either, and I have no inkling as to what part they've played in Farley's grand operations. Shade's been there longer—he could've been one of the vandals when the Cygnet buildings were attacked. As for Kilorn . . . the thought of Kilorn spending so much as a night in jail sounds laughable. He's not cut out for it, just like how he's not cut out to be in a gang.

There's also the matter of the Academy. If the rest of the Calores found out I've known about the Street Fighters all along, I wonder if I'd still have a place there. It's not like Farley's gang is the mortal enemy of Calore Industries, but I worry. If her words are all she cracked them up to be and Maven's right about them going after corporations, then the Calores will be on the Street Fighter's hit list sooner or later.

I'm an accessory to the Scarlet Street Fighters. The only reason Maven hasn't talked is because he needs me to do it. Otherwise, I'll be in deep, deep trouble with the law.

I shouldn't have told him any of it.

"You make it sound like your family's untouchable, Maven," I murmur. "Somebody will slip up eventually, and the police will bring the Fighters down long before they can try anything." I almost tell him not to worry, but when I realize I'm chewing on my plastic straw I hold my tongue.

Maven sighs, rubbing his hands across his face. "It just feels like I'm staring at an atomic bomb and passively waiting for it to explode," he explains and raises a brow, "the Fighters?"

I shrug. "Scarlet Street Fighters, Street Fighters, Fighters . . . whatever their name means, it's a mouthful. I've taken the liberty of shortening it. But listen."

My partner's going to go grey soon if I don't do _something_. We don't talk about any of this often and when we do it's always at least five blocks from the Academy, but _when_ we do, Maven's _always_ looking for a solution. It's eating at him, and even now as he stares at the table I see the guilt in his eyes.

"I'm going back to the apartment tonight," I say before I can regret it.

Six weeks. I've already put it off for too long, and another day might have Mom pulling out her hair. Maybe she already is.

It was a decision I made this morning as I gazed out through the glass of Julian's studio. Without classes to keep me busy and Maven having been at Columbia all week, I've spent most of my time in that beautiful room, going between staring at the window and the mirror. But today was different: though she was too old to be my sister, a woman with vivid red hair was walking across the street I looked down upon around eight. _Gee_.

A stop at Will's downstairs won't take much time at all. I wasn't planning on staying home overnight anyway.

"Yeah," I say, nodding to myself. "I'll talk to Will, see what I can out of him."

I've spent hours over the years negotiating with Will, and he isn't an eat nut to crack. When I've tried to bring my prices for pickpocketed jewelry up, he's brought them down; Will's manipulated me like that since I don't have another buyer to turn to. Though he could be worse and likes me enough to only rip me off _a little_.

Before I met Farley in the flesh, I didn't know he associated with _gangs_ , though I suppose he has to pawn off his stolen goods somewhere. Who knows who else he deals with when I'm out of the store?

"You're finally ready?" He's not asking about Will, though. Maven might be freaked out, but he doesn't forget about my family. He tilts his head and gives me a long, meaningful look. "I don't want you to go just to see him."

I shake my head. "I'm really, really selfish for waiting this long. I was planning on it anyway, so I might as well . . . _kill two birds with one stone_." The last part comes out in a darkly sarcastic way.

Noticing the hand I've draped halfway across the table, Maven puts his over it, and our fingers intertwine. Though it might look like it, it's hardly a romantic gesture as Maven gives my hand two firm squeezes.

"They have to accept you. You're a dancer at the Manhattan Dance Academy, Mare. You've made it, and nobody can tell you otherwise."

Yet I still raise my brows skeptically. I've sent money home every week without a return address on it. At least Shade's better than me in that way and stomachs the guilt of seeing their letters. But if they could . . . Mom and Gee would be begging me to come home, even for just a visit. Dad, Bree, and Tramy are too man to sign their names, but they'd be leaning over Mom's shoulder the entire time she penned it.

That letter, that visit . . . they'd want more. Of course they would; I would too in their shoes. Maven's right: with the amount of money I'm making, my parents can hardly argue against my new career. But they'd want me to come home. They _will_ want me to come home.

And I don't want to go home. I like living alone and in an air-conditioned loft, not having to fight for control of a fan. I like going out places with Maven after class, and on the nights he's busy, I like dining by myself in my room. It's certainly better than being at the table in my old apartment.

I like being away from East Harlem.

 _Not home_.

Perhaps things have changed with the money I've sent, but I suspect a great cloud lingers over the Barrow household, mainly due to me and Shade. Coming home for one evening won't change much.

"It will be fine, Mare." Maven says it passionately enough that he must believe it himself.

"I know." _You can always walk out again if it comes to it_.

A woman clad in a white shirt and black pants comes by with two separate tabs, and Maven and I quickly pull our hands apart. As though we think we're guilty of something.

I look up to say a thank-you, but the female server only gives me a smile and wink before dropping off the two booklets containing receipts.

Some people.

Even if when I look back towards Maven, I catch the slightest rosy blush on his face.


	24. Chapter 24

A breeze ruffles my hair as I make my way down First Avenue. In the cover of night, ashen clouds blotting out the moon and the stars, I'm little more than a phantom in my hurried walk to Will's Deli and Grocery.

I pass by complex after complex of brick apartments, their windows tiny compared to the sleek creations of Midtown. Storefronts built into the apartments glow from the inside, sporting all variety of products: late-night hamburgers, auto repair, personal fitness . . . you name it. Though they're all the same when you compare them to one another, with their colorful awnings, electrifying lights, and fire escapes not so far above. The old buildings might as well have been cut from cookie cutters.

The sky's darker than I'd like it, and the store clocks I pass by reveal a time later than I'd like. I've always hated the five-block walk from the subway to my apartment, and being in the dark and shadows of the streets doesn't ease my dread. The boots I wear are atrocious, heels thudding on concrete the way my pointe shoes would. Too often, I pass through a stretch of sidewalk with no store lights.

On the other hand, the air is refreshingly open. It might not smell the best on some blocks, but I can look up and see the translucent clouds floating through it. Without craning or breaking my neck to see so far overhead, I feel strange being here. Liberated, in an ironic way. Evidently Midtown has changed me.

East Harlem isn't all bad, in spite of what I've said about it. There's a beautiful culture here, full of food and art forms from all over the globe. Every ethnicity of cuisine imagined exists somewhere in this part of town, and coruscant murals that you'd never find on the Upper East Side rest proudly on street corners. It's a beautiful thing, but a quiet thing . . . overshadowed by other things.

The traffic's much lighter than Time Square's constant jam, and I have no trouble crossing the street when the time comes. Shining in all its glory of yellowing lights and flickering neon signs, Will Whistle's shop looms right in front of me.

He's an old man with a clever mind and a big mouth. Will might have new . . . characteristics, but he's the same man I've bickered with since the age of seven. How he got into Farley's realm confounds me, when he's at least triple her age . . . it doesn't matter. Will's only ever been a middleman, and that hasn't changed with Farley. I just need a lead tonight.

Though I haven't begun to consider how to broach him on the subject, the stubborn old bastard. Part of me wonders if he'd rather take all of his secrets to the grave.

I stalled back in my room, taking great pain in choosing what to wear home. In the end, I settled on jeans, a T-shirt, a leather jacket, and a pair of boots, the sort of outfit I might've worn to school back in the day, and nothing imperious, nothing flaunting or arrogant. With two thoughts on my mind, one to prove to Mom and Dad that I haven't changed, and the other to show Will what a serious businesswoman I am, I chose something in between.

I'm not some crazy daughter who ran away home, nor am I the teenager Will bought wallets and jewelry from.

Though it's late, nobody will be asleep. Mom and Dad will be watching the news, Gisa will be in her room doing _something_ artsy—sewing or embroidering if her wrist has gotten better—and my brothers could be out with their friends, now that everyone's off work. Or maybe they, too, have gotten new jobs.

Four stories above, the window leading out of Gee's beckons with more light. I swear I see Mom's silhouette in the one next to it. She must have gotten a late start on dishes.

Just a little while longer. Surely my exchange with Will can only take a few minutes. Whatever comes of it.

The metal bar of the door is cool beneath my palms as I press it forward, attempting not to inhale the blast of stale air that comes running my way.

Though my held breath does nothing to block the pounding Metallica from my ears. Or from my mind the image of Will Whistle whipping his head forward and back, shaking his hips as he counts the money from his till. The music's pumping over the speakers—the one aspect of this stupid store Will actually invested in—loud enough that he doesn't hear the bell ring its usual peal, and I take half a dozen paces into the store.

Or so it seems. After a moment, without a pause or a flinch, Will comes out of his reverie, stuffing his money away into the register. He does that silly habit of brushing his beard to the side before he turns to the window for the stereo. By the time Will's turned the music down to quiet murmur, I've reached the counter and set my forearms against it. He's still subtly nodding his head when he turns to me.

"You're not going to get any business if you play music that makes people go deaf, Will," I say matter-of-factly with an impish smile.

For the longest time, how in the hell Will kept his store open was the greatest mystery. He owns the building, but he still has to pay taxes and utilities and buy all this food, and no way was the profit Will made from my pickpockets enough. But like Will said, I'm not his only client, and it's apparent that he's involved in much darker businesses than mine. His _Deli and Grocery_ crap is probably an entire front to make him look the likes of an innocent elderly man if he ever gets exposed.

"Unfortunately for me, I already lost my best customer. It was all downhill for me either way," Will quips back. He doesn't miss a beat and returns my smile, showing off surprisingly white teeth.

I make a sound from the back of my throat, ducking my head. Beneath the glass-like counter rests packages of cigarettes and gum and candy bars, and above that, my own dull reflection. _Keep him on topic_.

Opening my mouth, I begin. "I—"

"Not that I keep up with the affairs of the Barrow household, but as I am your landlord . . . I've heard a thing or two over the weeks," Will starts. Behind him, traffic lights gleam through the window, and heavy metal keeps on playing quietly. Oddly enough, the hint of lights and sound make the cramped aisles all the more desolate. "I'd tell you that your parents are worried sick, but I imagine that's why you're here."

I might as well be invisible to Will. As though it means nothing, he returns his focus to the register, where he begins shuffling around too many hundred-dollar bills. The hint of a smirk Will wears as he does it tells me he has a clue of where this conversation's headed, has probably expected it for weeks. He already finds it funny, me trying to coax information out of him, and I haven't even begun. And now he's forcing my hand and bringing up Mom and Dad.

 _Don't_. _Your family's up three flights of stairs, and you'll talk to them soon enough. Don't let him scare you._

"You know why I'm here," I say bluntly, tapping my fingernail against the plastic. I don't have to explain myself to him, and the story of how I ended up at the Manhattan Dance Academy isn't worth the time it would take to tell.

"I'm not sure I do," Will says innocently and moves onto the fifties. "I'm not seeing any jewelry, and you haven't come in here to talk since you were ten years old. And then, most of the time you were just looking to flatter me into giving you free ice cream sandwiches."

Unable to help it, I give Will Whistle a massive eye roll. "Yeah. And you said no three-quarters of the time, claiming I'd mess up your inventory even though nobody buys any of the shit in here."

Neither of us says anything after that, caught up in remembering those arguments of so long ago. His store hasn't evolved one bit in the years that have passed, the stout shelves and popcorn ceiling the exact same as they were then. If I were to look at some of the cans, they'd probably be ten years expired; he only replaces the ones in the front rows. Will himself is nearly ageless, having worn the same checkered shirts, navy blue work pants, and ordinary tennis shoes since the day I met him—his beard's gotten lighter and his hair's thinned out, but everything else is the same.

I glance to the window, its blinds drawn open so that any passerby could see Will's collection of money in the register. I used to think he was stupid for doing that. Now I think he's too well-connected to get hurt.

"I'll tell you right now that I haven't the faintest clue as to where Diana Farley, Shade Barrow, or your friend Kilorn Warren is, Mare," Will discloses, sighing through his teeth. "I'll be no help in finding any of them."

Outside, a car horn sounds and tires screech. Metallica changes to Michael Jackson. I focus on those things, the scenery outside—the modest apartment across the way, framed by lush green trees; the late-night delivery vans running down the street—instead of Will's words. _Oh_ , I say. The word doesn't come out from my lips. No better truth reveals itself when I turn my attention back on the old man, his hazel eyes fixed on mine in all seriousness, mouth turned down in the slightest frown. "How did you meet _her_ , then?" I ask.

"You really want to hear the story?" Will asks, lifting a nonexistent eyebrow.

"Yes." Obviously. Of course.

"Over the last ten years—"

Though I don't say anything, the exasperated face I give Will makes him pause.

"No more eye-rolling or satire if you want to hear this story, Barrow," he warns, pointing at me accusingly.

I raise my hands in defense. "Fine. But don't blame me if I can't hide my shock." Leaning a little further onto the counter, I brace myself for whatever tale Will's about to let free.

"Ten years ago, I was strapped for cash and a friend of mine, remembering I was good with computers, offered me a job. He needed some _discreet_ investigating work done, and he knew I'd do it for ten times cheaper than a professional would. To boot, he knew I wasn't with the same qualms and morals and legal obligations regular private eyes hold." Will pauses again, probably thinking I'm about to interject with some satirical comment.

I hold my tongue, though I want to remind Will that he's seventy years old. I also want to ask him where he learned to hack in East Harlem.

"After realizing that drowning in debt and near-bankruptcy was no fun and that I had no hope of making a profit out of this place," Will blinks at each aisle of the store and motions around with his hand, "I did it again, this time for one of my friend's friends. _And again and again and again._ It might've started out as a side-job to make ends meet, but—"

"What kind of people did you investigate?" The question comes out before I can reign it in. But if I'm going to listen to any more of this _insane_ story, I _need_ to know.

"Bad people," he says it so simply, shrugging his shoulders. "My friend wanted me to find out if his wife was cheating on him, so I did, and I took down five dating networks in the process. I've built somewhat of a second business out of my _talent_ , hacking for background checks, investment scams, missing people . . . the men and women who hire me want things kept under the table, don't want the feds to get involved. Over the years I've discovered there's a market for what I do, a network of people more complex than you could possibly believe."

I lean closer, waiting for him to get to the part where he meets Farley. "And?"

My local grocer grins at me. " _And_ I met Diana Farley two years ago, in this very store as she waltzed in five minutes before closing time. She had heard about me over _that_ network, I suppose, and had followed it here. In fact, I have enough money to buy up an entire block of Brooklyn real estate if I wanted to, but I wouldn't want to put my customers through the trouble of navigating _that_ network again to find me. Will's Deli and Grocery is a landmark to them, and that's the only real reason I've stayed."

 _Come on, get to it. I don't care if you're rich now_. But I smile and nod at Will to keep him talking.

"Keep in mind that I'm only telling you this story because it's irrelevant," Will says when he notes my too-interested expression.

I narrow my eyes.

"She wanted what all of my customers want: information. Since it's illegally-obtained, she couldn't use it against anybody in court, and what she did with it wasn't my problem nor something I've ever looked into after the fact."

"You said you only investigate _bad people_." I stare at Will accusingly. Even if their cause was upright, the Scarlet Street Fighters create more problems than they do solve them. That makes Will an accomplice to numerous crimes. "Between everything you've done, you could go to jail for years."

Twenties. Will returns to the till, dodging my look. "The way I see it, the Scarlet Street Fighters are paying the rich back. Farley pays me too much money to warrant questions.

"As for jail time, the police could take down Farley's entire operation, and I'd get off without a second glance my way. I keep my business well-hidden and have securities in place in case something happens. And anyway, as of this moment, the NYPD has no chance against them. The members of that gang they've arrested over the years won't crack, and in the city, they've found nothing but dead ends," he explains. Will moves on to the tens.

"So I've heard," I mutter, stealing another glance out the window. How he sees them as righteous makes little sense, but I don't bother arguing on that front with Will. The cash he's receiving blinds whatever remnants of the moral compass he possesses.

And how long have I been here, and how much of it has been Will wasting my time with ancient stories?

"And what sort of—"

"Mare," Will says calmly as he rests both of his palms atop the counter. "I can't tell you _what_ kind of information I've hacked or _who_ it pertains to. It's this little thing called confidentiality. More than that, Farley would have my neck if I started leaking her business. But you know what the Scarlet Street Fighters stand for as well as I, and when I say Farley's address eludes me and I have no idea what she does with the files I give her, I mean it."

Bad people. The bad, corrupt men and women of Manhattan, that's who Will investigates for Farley. I don't need him to tell me that when all the Street Fighters do is go around gospelizing it.

But that doesn't change what stands in front of me: the stubbornest man in all of East Harlem, who might as well be a stone wall when it comes to getting answers. Short of attacking Will, stealing his keys, and running off to wherever his apartment is, I'll be better off wandering the streets for information on Farley's whereabouts. "Really," I say. My lip curls up, and I try to turn my nose down and still look him in the eye. "You can't tell me anything?"

"Not a thing."

I dole out a harsh little laugh. "Can you blame a girl for wanting to see her brother?"

Shade's honey eyes ring in my mind. I'd love nothing more than to see him again, yell at him and give him a nice punch in the face, though I'd break my hand in the process. _My half of the punishment for leaving._ But he isn't the real reason I came tonight, and Shade's eyes aren't the only ones that I remember.

Maven deserves whatever I can find out. I hardly know where I'm going with this, where this will get me, but . . . I owe it to him to try. So that we might brace ourselves for how bad it's going to get.

"I want to see him, Will," I say.

Yes. If Will doesn't know anything beyond the things he _won't_ share with me, then I'll reach out to my big brother. He must have something on them given the time he's put in for the Street Fighters, and poking at this right . . . maybe I'll be sitting across a dinner table from him by the week's end. The idea comes quick and recklessly, and it's out of my head and onto my lips before I can think twice. He's still in the city. I feel it in my bones.

"What makes you think that I have any means of making that happen?" Wills asks slyly. He counts his fives now. Michael Jackson bleeds into Queen. The stoplight outside flashes to red. Time ticks away, and I start rapping my nail on the counter again.

I could threaten him if I wanted, tell him I'd go straight to the cops with his name and address. But Will would just fall over cackling. He knows how I feel about the police—I was very adamant to Maven on _not_ going to the cops—and even if I did, it would spell certain death. Will must have dozens and dozens of clients, and if I put him in jail . . .

"The fact that you ask that makes me think you do," I say instead. "Come on. You must have a phone number or _something_ that can get me connected."

"Why the sudden interest now?" More questions. Great.

"It's been eating away at me for a while, actually," I reply. _Maven, too_.

"Why not write a letter instead? You do keep in contact with him, no?"

I grit my teeth. "We haven't dared to ask him to come home. And you know full-well that the mailing takes too long. Will, I swear if you don't cut your crap—"

Will raises a hand, withered and flecked with age marks. The motion's too peaceful, too gentle and graceful coming from him, and it has me pausing. His eyes have this fatherly gleam in them, something I've never seen once from Will, a bachelor of many years. Ones. He counts them, more numerous than any of other bills, cheeks working as though he intends on saying something more.

"Get out with it," I order, my tone bordering on anger.

"Farley could use somebody like you," he says quietly, more reluctantly than I've ever heard from him.

"If she's looking for somebody stubborn, I'd tell her there's nobody better than you." It's another one of his scams, and with a glance at the clock positioned above the window, I realize I've already spent longer than I wanted to here. "I don't care about Farley," I grumble, and pushing off the counter, I make for the doorway.

Like hell I'd join the Street Fighters. I'm not looking to get myself thrown in prison or killed for their stupid, halfwitted cause that's never going anywhere. Kilorn, I'd expect that sort of behavior from, but not me. I have too good of a thing going.

"You misunderstand me. Farley could use an _insider_."

The way he says it stops me from opening the door, the only barrier separating this damned store from the rest of the world.

"You're not talking straight."

Will couldn't know. But my stomach flips over as his unwanted stare presses into my back, and my heart starts pulsing against my ribcage as if in warning. I see my reflection again, this time in the door, and my skin's paler than usual. No. He couldn't know. It's only his usual bull—

"What's it like, up in that glass building?"

My fingers wrap around the door handle, and my stomach pushes into my throat. Slowly, I turn around, and Will gives me a conspiratorial smile. So much for that fatherly look.

All the fluorescents, all the suffocating air, and all the Queen lyrics become distant and abstract. I feel weightless. There. At last an answer, even if it was the one I desired the least. _Will's been following the Calores_.

By some miracle, Mister Calore managed to keep my fall out of the journalists' hands, so Will didn't pick up a paper and read my story by chance. He's been hacking _them_ , reading into _them_ , per the request of Diana Farley. But Maven told me himself that his family runs a perfectly honest business, looked me dead in the eye as he said it. Farley's picked the wrong people this time.

" _This_ is none of your business, Will. The Calores run a _perfectly honest_ business." My voice comes out breathless. I don't think I'm breathing.

Will deposits his last dollar bill in the register and gives me a frank look. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."


	25. Chapter 25

"Humor me: how in the world did you end up working as a maid at the Calore Dance Academy?"

Arrested in place at the door, I stare after Will as he crouches behind the counter and opens one of its larger cabinets. The clicking of a combination lock sounds throughout the air, and soon enough Will's tossing a manila folder onto the counter. Though he probably has dozens of cases, I can't help but remember the folder he handed Farley all those weeks ago.

Will busies himself with removing the file's papers, all blurred and black and white from the door. He glances over his shoulder towards me for a moment. "Well?" he asks. "Your parents don't seem to know that you work there at all, and the reports on that nasty fall only mention you walked in with an advertisement the day before."

I don't bother asking what _reports_ he speaks of. "It was pure-chance," I grumble. My throat has that parched feeling, like I took a nap for three hours with my mouth wide open.

"The fall or how you got the job?"

"You were there when I ripped that ad off your storefront."

"To this day I question what idiot had the balls to vandalize my property."

I would laugh if it were just me and Will chatting it up like old pals. But I'm too focused on my words. I tell him as little as I dare to, leaving Cal's name off the table and our meeting at the GrAveyard nonexistent. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, and more importantly, what he doesn't know won't hurt _me_.

My stomach continues to churn, and I keep my arms firmly crossed, but I say anyway, "You knew it was an advertisement for the Manhattan Dance Academy. You're just asking to see what I'll say."

"Clever girl. Now come look." He finishes, laying out the papers in six columns and two rows.

This man . . . this man . . . he knew what I was getting myself into the moment I took that poster from his window and stormed up to my apartment. He let me run away from everything to live out this dream, kept his mouth shut when my parents undoubtedly asked after me. Even tonight, he knew full well where this conversation would go in the end, shepherding it like the trickster he is. He puts Cal's manipulation to shame.

My feet stay anchored in place, utterly petrified. I don't register the new song that comes on the radio, placid as the air around me is. Even my pounding heart goes a little numb along with the rest of my body. I only see Will's face, his sharp chin angled down at the papers, his hands braced along the counter's edges, and his eyes insisting that I don't walk out the door.

"I'm not ruining what I have there." Shaking my head slowly to make a point, I settle one of my hands on my hip, the other in a fist set against my mouth. "The law's going to get to the Street Fighters long before they get to the Calores."

"Don't be turning all cynical on me," Will scolds, shaking his head right back. "I wouldn't bother telling you _any of this_ if I thought you could stomach working for a corrupt family. You might have a nice little salary and a pretty little loft to live in, but at the end of the day, you're not one of them—no matter how hard you try, you never will be, nor will you want to be."

My gut clenches, and air catches in my throat. I can't say he's wrong. Any building as big as the ones downtown possess some degree of corruption, have stolen something from the little man. For all my life, I've seen Midtown and Wall Street as nothing more than an outlet for pickpocketing, a haven for wealth and fortune. Those skyscrapers and billboards reminded me for the longest time of what I wasn't born into and what I wasn't lucky enough to have. I've never bought off Fifth Avenue or seen Central Park from the high rises of Billionaires' Row. The similarities I share with the other ballerinas at the Academy extend no further than our pointe shoes and leotards.

No further. I'm a girl from East Harlem who dropped out of school because she thought it wasn't worth the trouble. Every pair of jeans and shoes I own are secondhand. My family's broke because my dad can't walk anymore, courtesy of those rich kids who thought the world revolved around them. My brother and Kilorn are just another two names on a very long list of kids who've run away from home.

Will laughs, a cruel, vindictive kind of sound I've never heard out of him. "You're not going to ask what they're guilty of, are you? You'd rather not know? No one ever said oblivion wasn't sweet."

No, they didn't. And though this situation's becoming more inextricable by the minute and it might damn us both, I promised Maven. I can't live in the dark any longer.

Of their own volition, my feet guide me back to the counter. "Fraud? Money laundering? Blackmail?" I ask helplessly, rattling off the types of corruption I've heard of. But no, I'd rather not know, and I'd take one more corrupt family over whatever madness the Street Fighters have planned. Each step feels like a nightmare as I see what's written in Sharpie on that manila file: CASE 0, SSF.

"Something like that. You should realize that the Calores are very thorough when it comes to hiding their dirt, though. Two years and this is all I have." Will gestures to his papers proudly nonetheless, happy enough he reeled me in from walking out the door.

A dozen sheets of printer paper. I brush my fingers over the Calores's bank records, a few meeting transcripts, and a blurry photograph of two men in an elevator. None of it means anything to me.

"What do these prove?" I ask, biting my lip as I point toward the bank records.

Great. Now I'm showing interest.

"Considering Calore Industries is a banking corporation, digging up fraudulent records on their money is rather difficult," Wil mumbles, and he puts an elbow to the counter and cups his chin in hand. "But . . ." he continues, tapping the transcripts, "I hacked into their Wall Street building's cameras two months ago and managed to transcribe a few meetings before their security threw me out a week later.

"Tiberias Calore partook in on all of them. A man named Volo Samos—you've met his daughter—was in on the first, the two discussing future banks they might try to absorb. Not especially illegal, no, but still something to keep an eye out for. The second, interestingly enough, was with Orrec Cygnet—perhaps you recall his company was attacked in July—though the conversation was strictly professional. And the last . . . the last was with the New York Police Department Commissioner, Dane Davidson."

The pixelated image to the left of the transcripts is now clearly a photograph of a business-ready Tiberias shaking hands with a man wearing a police dress uniform, badges and cap and all. They're in some sort of meeting room. I lean closer into the counter to make out the finer details of the Commissioner, which include closely-shaven hair and a height to rival Mister Calore's. Otherwise, he's a perfectly ordinary man, hardly threatening or special in the first place.

I don't have to ask Will what that conversation entailed or read the transcript to find out. He's a corrupt cop, and the big dog of the NYPD to boot. Tiberias Calore probably bribed or blackmailed that man, along with the rest of the police, to stand back while he carried out whatever nefarious business needed carrying out.

No wonder Cal got his motorcycle returned to him so quickly.

"So the cops . . . what? Ignore the Calores should they do illegal things?"

"Precisely. From what I understand, their arrangement is years-old." Will gathers the transcripts and the photograph, shuffles them into an orderly stack, and deposits them into the folder. "When your bank account is worth billions, nobody notices when a _few_ million are missing." He taps at the bank records before returning them to the folder as well.

I match Will pace for pace as he wanders to the other end of the papers, where five remain. "And you have no idea what sort of illegal things they're doing, besides for buying out public officials?"

"Nope. I've never hacked something so big, and trust me, I'm ashamed of my progress. Their security is _air-tight_. If it was anything less, Tiberias Calore wouldn't be having such discussions in rooms with security cameras; even so, he probably likes to have that kind of footage on hand. Davidson's locked in for life, now."

What the hell do the Calores even do? Investments and finance my ass, they own a banking corporation, and I'm disappointed in myself for not looking into it sooner. _My money is in that bank_. Though they flaunt the beauty of the Manhattan Dance Academy, they downplay their wealth. The Calores more than likely pay off the media to abstain from gossiping about them, given how Mister Calore kept my story from the paper. Then there's Maven, who didn't mention how garishly rich his family is until today, and Cal's made light of it from the start.

I come to five driver's licenses printed onto the remaining papers, four of which the faces I know all-too-well. Mister Calore, born in the mid-seventies, is smiling broadly, while to his side, Elara Merandus, born around the same time, wears a neutral expression in her photograph. It might be a black and white copy, but her eyes still freeze my skin over. Both papers have a Wikipedia-style biography beneath the license that I skip over entirely.

Cal's picture comes next, right below his father's, and it somehow ended up decent. His classic, enchanting grin shines through the colorless paper; his hair's tousled; and a strong jawline suits him well. The card describes his eyes as hazel, though I don't agree. His birthday's in less than two months. Thankfully, Cal's too young for Will's time to be worth stalking him, and the paper contains no biography for me to read.

"Are you friends with the older one?" Will asks, noting my eyes while they linger on Cal's ID.

If he could stop the commentary for one minute. "Not really," I say. I rarely talk to Cal these days, though he'll still forget his keys in Julian's studio once in a while, and we'll end up chatting for a few minutes on those mornings.

"Hm. From what I hear, he's the most eligible bachelor in New York. The Academy girls must be all over him, poor guy."

I take a steadying breath. "You're unbelievable, Will."

"It's all part of the job."

Maven's paper doesn't include a biography either. He wasn't so lucky when it came to his license picture, and his face is contorted into a half-cringe and his hair looks as though he ran a hand through it ten too many times. "I know the younger one much better," I tell Will. "You must have found out we're partners."

"Yes," Will says and shuffles those four papers away, "A nice boy, yes?"

I nod, pulling the last paper towards me, one last driver's license.

Coriane Jacos . . . as in Julian Jacos? She's no older than twenty-five, and though her eyes have a dullness to them and her hair's limp, she's a beautiful woman in a demure, withdrawn sort of way. Funny, for all the talk there is of Julian, I've never heard about a daughter. Maybe she wanted to get out of the city after she graduated, having found it too loud and pretentious. Yes, she looks like that sort of—

 _DOB 5/1/1977_.

That would put Coriane Jacos at forty-two years old. More like a sister to Julian.

"Why is this so outdated?" I ask.

"Because she drowned herself in a bathtub almost twenty years ago."

I look up at Will, who's eyes have changed yet again to become uncharacteristically somber. "Who was she?"

"Tiberias Calore's first wife of seven years. The older one's mother."

And then I look away toward the stained tile floor. He shouldn't be telling me this. Cal's mom . . . no wonder I've never heard about her. I would've assumed it was a divorce in which some socialite got off with some of Tiberias Calore's money, a woman who Cal goes to visit on weekends when he's not living it up in the Hamptons. For the first time all night, bile threatens to spill into my throat. He would've been an infant when she passed, with no memory of his mother now.

"When it first happened, there was speculation on whether she had killed herself or not. But the scene was clean, no evidence of foul play. Mister Calore had the investigations stop, and in time, the media laid off. Since then, I think they try to keep out of the news as much as possible."

The more I look at her, the more she looks sick. As if she—or somebody else—had been killing her slowly, long before the bathtub. "What does it mean to the Scarlet Street Fighters?"

"Well, if she was murdered . . . who was it by? What was the motive? It doesn't hurt to look into."

I run a hand over my face. This is ridiculous. "You made it sound as though you've hit the grand jackpot of corrupt families. All I'm seeing is what-ifs and wild guesswork." Coriane's death was twenty years ago, and Will's just digging up old pain and scandals."So you're certain they're corrupt, but you don't know more."

Will smiles sweetly at me. "I'm not Farley's only middleman, Mare. The Calores are bad news, and my cut of illegally-stolen information is one small part of an entire operation. The Scarlet Street Fighters wouldn't be after that family if there was a shadow of a doubt there."

Well, doesn't he have an answer for everything? Beyond frustrated with Will's mixed-messages and the time I've wasted on him, I slap my palms on the counter and shake my head one last time. "Not worth it."

"Dance blinds you, Little Barrow."

I cringe at that stupid nickname he gave me ten years ago as I walk to the door again.

"If nothing else, mark my words tonight as a warning: the Scarlet Street Fighters _were created_ _for_ the Calores. You're on a diamond-encrusted liner bound for the bottom of the ocean. It would be a tragedy for you to sink with it."

* * *

I stand at the landing to the subway station, staring towards the lights of Midtown. The wind's picked up, and it whips my hair in every direction, seeps under the cuffs of my jacket, and urges me down the steps.

By the time I got out of Will's store, I had wasted too much time. The kitchen light of my family's apartment was out along with Gee's, meaning Will's bullshitting took longer than even I thought possible. I didn't want to wake them, and they probably wouldn't have answered the door anyway.

But it was more than that. Having shut Will's door behind me, I felt incapable of walking up the stairs to the apartment if it meant I'd have to paste a smile on for my parents when everything's about to go to hell. Explaining what I've done at the Academy, what I've earned . . . it wouldn't feel right. All the hugs and apologies I'd have to give would feel like a hazed-over dream. Seeing them would feel trivial, even though they're my family.

On that five-block walk, my annoyance turned to fear, and my fear turned to hatred. In spite of the fact that he knows so little, Will's tone by the end of our conversation told me enough: bribing cops is only the start of something unimaginably corrupt. I was halfway out the door when Will uttered his final words, spitting the _were created for_ part. They aren't just another case, and the Calores did something to someone if the Street Fighters _were created for_ them.

They got me a job, a better life. But whose life did they destroy in that process? The rich take and take and take, scam and cheat their way to fortune. Farley's monologue suggested that much. The Manhattan Dance Academy, their skyscrapers, and their Hamptons home _suggest that much_.

How much of this city do they own? And at what cost?

Shade thought it was worth it. Shade was never selfish: he left everything for the Scarlet Street Fighters' cause, but he never would've left if not for great reason. I was so blind, so ignorant to assume that he had abandoned us for something as stupid as a gang.

And here I am, spending my days dancing with the rich.

Before I can make a better decision, I'm running down the block, the wind doing battle against me. Fewer lights sparkle this time around, but that fear turned to anger and the drunken shrieks of laughter and car engines don't scare me. It's all secondary, all . . . trivial.

I don't feel much of anything as I sprint, hard as the night air attempts to sting the pores of my face. The pounding of cracked asphalt against my feet and shins is nothing. And the ragged breaths out of my chest don't feel like breaths at all.

Will's Deli and Grocery beckons in the darkness. Will's frail outline waits in the window, a shadow counting far more money than his little store actually makes.

In another moment, I'm pushing through the door, striding to the counter.

Will looks up, cash in hand. He cocks his head.

"I want in," I say, my voice torn-up from the running. "I want in."


	26. Chapter 26

" _Giselle_."

I barely hear her. My eyes half-closed, I go through motion after motion at the barre, in somewhat of a trance. My feet sweep from position to position, my arms come up and down, and I remember all the details I always have: _head tilted up, a long neck, a back not arched, and more_. It's a simple warmup, one of Blonos's countless variations and full of _tendues_ and _plies_ and arching and stretching. It grounds me, and I focus on those things rather than the dozens of other dancers with me inside of this cavern-of-a studio.

Blonos always starts us off this way during technique class, though it never lasts. By the end, I'll be turning until I don't know what's in front of me anymore and performing combinations that take all of my effort to remember this early in the morning.

Five feet ahead, Cal performs in time with me. Every now and then, I watch his movements through my slit eyelids. The muscles in his back move with his shoulders, and tanned arms flex as he raises them over his head in fifth position. Sweat already stains his shirt at the armpit; even for a ballet dancer, he's in better shape than most if he runs in the mornings and then dances for nine-plus hours. His body says that much.

Cal and his brother came rushing in five minutes late, muttering to Blonos that they got tied up at the _penthouse_. After, Cal waltzed over to my barre and settled himself in one of the last empty spots in the studio: right next to me. At least he didn't give one of those insufferable grins in the process.

" _Giselle_ is a story of twisted fairytale love and betrayal," Blonos continues as she passes my barre, hair tightly-bunned and hands crossed behind her back as usual. Her rigid voice filters through the soft ballad the pianist in the corner plays, keeping us together as we go through the warmup sequence. "It was first performed in the eighteen-hundreds by the Paris Opera Ballet and has since become one of classical ballet's greatest hits. Though many of you have performed it before and already know this."

Rounding my barre at the side of the room and heading for the mirrors in the front, Blonos releases one of her signature bland chuckles. "Giselle is a peasant girl of the Middle Ages who loves to dance. She's beautiful; she captures the hearts of all, but she _herself_ has a naive and weak heart."

"Quite literally a weak heart," somebody adds from above, and I have to stop myself from jerking out of my stretch at the sound of Elara Merandus's voice. With a glance upward, I find Elara leaning over the balcony railing, clad in her typical all-black ensemble. She does a once-over of the studio, _quite literally_ looking down on us with the added height. "Giselle's mother wishes she wouldn't dance anymore, for the fear that her heart will give out because of it."

Blonos nods. "So one day, a young nobleman named Duke Albrecht arrives amid the town's grape harvest. He falls in love with Giselle, and hiding his old clothes, sword, and hunting horn, he disguises himself as a peasant so that he may court her. Albrecht—or Loys, his peasant name—whoos Giselle out of her cottage to partake in the harvest festivities with him, and he soon declares his undying love for her. It is enough for Giselle to fall in love with Albrecht."

"Yet," Elara adds, dull eyes still examining us, "Hilarion, the town gamekeeper, is hopelessly in love with Giselle. He doesn't trust the peasant Loys, but Giselle pays no heed to his warning when he tells her as much.

"Soon after, a ring of noblemen come across the village in search of drinks, having completed a hunt. Aware that his betrothed, Bathilde, is with the noblemen, Albrecht flees the village as the rest of the peasants welcome them with refreshments and dancing. Bathilde and Giselle meet, and Giselle tells Bathilde of her courtship, who ironically gifts her a necklace in congratulations. The two depart, utterly oblivious that they're with the same man."

Though the pianist remains striking his ballad, most of the dancers have fallen out of the variation. I find myself pausing in my _tendues_. My eyes dart back and forth from Elara to Blonos, and I grip the barre to my side firmly.

Blonos speaks next. "Albrecht returns to dance with Giselle, who is named the Harvest Queen. But Hilarion emerges with his noble sword, proving that Loys is in fact a nobleman who is promised to another. Hilarion summons the return of the noblemen with the hunting horn he found alongside Albrecht's sword, and faced with no time to hide, Albrecht greets Bathilde as his betrothed.

"Though all are shocked at the revelation, no one is as upset as Giselle, who descends into heartache. Certain that she and Albrecht will never be together, she grows hysterical and begins dancing madly."

"Until her weak heart gives out," Elara adds. "She dies in Duke Albrecht's arms."

I raise my brows and slacken my grip on the barre, half-expecting for Elara to begin a lecture on the futility of love. Yes, the ballet mistress seems like the kind of woman who'd charge love as a weakness, with her cold eyes and condescending voice. Not that I could argue with her when I've never had a boyfriend.

" _In the second act_ , we open to find Hilarion mourning at the site of Giselle's forest grave. But before he can leave, Hilarion meets the ethereal Wilis—the ghostly spirits of young women abandoned and betrayed by their lovers. They all died of broken hearts, and any man who crosses them after midnight is sentenced to death. They force Hilarion to exhaust himself by dancing with them until dawn, at which point the Wilis drown him in a lake."

Elara walks now, striding closer to my barre from above. She seems to have taken over Blonos's monologue. "Meanwhile, Albrecht, too, comes to mourn for Giselle at her gravestone. Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis, draws Giselle from her sleep to dance with Albrecht, though she pleads with the queen to let her lover go. Naturally, Myrtha and the Wilis refuse, senseless in their hatred of all men."

"But though she and Albrecht dance until sunrise, he does not die. Giselle's _love_ for the count keeps him alive as they dance, defeating the hatred and vengeance that control the Wilis. And after bidding Albrecht a weeping goodbye at dawn when Myrtha's power disappears, Giselle returns to her grave to rest in peace alongside the Wilis, and Albrecht returns to Bathilde."

 _Giselle_. Though I had no idea what it was about, I remember seeing the whimsical dancers of the New York City Ballet in wraithlike white dresses on YouTube and begging Mom to take me to the Met. I was all of ten years old, but I told her I'd pay for the tickets—I would've been ecstatic to sit in the back row of the highest deck—and do dishes for a month. But like hell was I about to convince Mom to go to the Metropolitan Opera House with me. It was as single-sided of an argument as the one we had when my parents pulled me from my studio.

"Interpret the story as you like," Elara murmurs. "But for all the times I've danced and taught this ballet, I still wonder if Albrecht really loved Giselle, or if he was just looking for a good time."

* * *

Though I try to avoid him, Maven catches up to me after Blonos's class.

"Well?" he asks in a whisper, angling his mouth toward my ear. "What did you find out?"

I give him a weak smile. "It went exactly how I thought it would. Will's a locked box, not to mention the old man sounds like he's losing it." The lie comes easy enough after all the hours I rehearsed it in my head. I force _truth_ into my eyes as I stare down Maven Calore in the thankfully-empty hallway he's caught me in.

What. Have. I. Done. The hour-and-a-half of grueling technique class I just went through was the first time I've been able to stop thinking it. My second walk back from Will's store last night was agony, every moment spent wondering if I should return and call him off. The ride to Midtown was no better, endured silently in a near-empty subway car, still wondering. It was far past eleven by the time I returned to the Academy, though I didn't fall asleep until two, and even then it was a restless fit of tossing and turning amid strange, unsettling thoughts and dreams.

Unable to bear it anymore, I got up at six-thirty and spent the better part of my time before technique pacing, rehearsing.

Not ballet. But my lines for what will no doubt become an elaborate mess of a lie.

"Yeah," I mutter, turning my eyes on the fork in the hallway ahead, all marble and cream walls. "I spent a half-hour in that stupid little store, arguing with an insane old man. It was a thorough waste of time."

A half-truth. I'll stick to those as long as I can.

 _I want in. I want in._

The desperate words ring clearly in my mind along with the memory of my panic-stricken heartbeat and white-knuckled fists. Will had pumped up his radio again, but my words were loud enough for him to hear over the din of whatever rock band that played. And though he didn't say anything at first, his bastard's smile was victorious. Will had known it was only a matter of minutes before I came rushing through his door again.

 _In that case, they'll be in touch_. _Soon_.

And then he went back to counting his money.

 _How soon?_

 _Soon. Go along now, I'm closing soon_.

I could think of nothing else to say. And more than that, I knew deep-down that Will Whistle was a man who picked and chose his words and had no intention of sharing any new ones with me.

So as I numbly walked from the store, I wondered what I had done.

"That's too bad," my partner says quietly. I don't have to look at Maven to understand he's disappointed, and more than that, scared. Yet it's too great of a risk to tell him anything.

He might not be the favorite son, but blood runs deep in any family. If I were to reveal to him what I've done, what cause I've promised myself to, no way would he stay quiet any longer. I can imagine the scene clear enough in my mind: one phone call to that corrupt police commissioner and in five minutes I'd be in handcuffs getting hauled down to 1 Police Plaza. Will wouldn't be far behind me, and God knows what he _actually_ knows.

"I don't know what to do," I whisper, more to myself. It kills me to lie to Maven about this after everything he's done for me. He's the only real friend I've made in this place—though in the other girls' defenses, I haven't tried as hard as I said I would to make friends—and our afternoon outings are my favorite thing. He's been kind, more accepting than I ever would've thought. And a far better friend than I've ever had. If he goes down with his family, or worse, if I take his mother and father away from him . . . he deserves better.

No. _Created for the Calores_. This is bigger than him, and it's too late now anyway, however sick I feel with myself.

 _Soon_. Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean, I guess I'll have to go against my very nature and sit on my ass. For all I know, tomorrow morning I'll wake up to Farley standing at the foot of my bed with my first assignment. Or bump into Shade on my walk to the post office. Both thoughts send violent fits of chills down my spine.

 _Terrorist_. _That's what I am._

Maven doesn't respond for a while, and we hit the fork in the hallway. Usually he'd go right and I'd go left, but today Maven turns left with me toward Elara's studio. I don't dare look at him. "I just . . ." He sighs, shaking his head in my periphery. "If they really are targeting my family because of some corruption . . . I don't know if I'd be angrier with my father or them."

I swallow at his muttered, near-silent words. Anybody down the hall sees us as nothing more than chatting partners, two stupid teenagers talking about nothing especially important. Mare and Maven wear their silly ballet shoes and outfits—in Maven's case, a grey T-shirt and tight black pants I've become accustomed to ignoring—and swing their dance bags back and forth, blissfully aloof to the world around them. If only that were the case.

"Family is family, Maven. You don't betray them, not for anything." My words are thick with contradiction when both Shade and I left home without a goodbye, yet they come out anyway. I have to test him, see where his heart lies.

"Maybe for Cal," he says, stopping. I have no choice but to halt and face him. His eyes are somber and far-too weary for his age; though he holds himself high, he reminds me that we are indeed only teenagers. _What do I look like? Is there guilt written along every line of my face?_ "But I don't know if I could say the same if Dad turned out to be a criminal."

We've come to a crossroads in the hallways, sunlight filtering in from a stretch of windows down the way. A constant reminder of where I am, the familiar letters of _CDA_ are inscribed into the sunset marble in gold lettering, while massive landscape paintings of magical dancing scenes hang at each corner. One of them contains the Wilis of _Giselle_.

I keep my gaze steady on Maven as I imagine a world where he's on my side and I can trust him.

He returns my look with an equal coolness in spite of his sad eyes.

"We should go out this weekend," Maven says, shaking his head as if it'll erase our conversation. "I want to hear about how it went with your family."

Unable to tell him I couldn't bring myself to see them, I smile and nod.

"Have fun at choreography, Mare."

"You too, Maven."


End file.
